


Don't Say That Later Will Be Better

by natashawitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU after Holy Terror, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, Hurt Dean Winchester, Intimacy, M/M, Mental Instability, Spoilers up to s09e09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 16:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 22,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natashawitch/pseuds/natashawitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean cannot bear to stay in the bunker. He leaves alone and without direction. </p><p>"Dean pressed his palm flat against the bunker door. Not to test it for movement. It wasn’t going to budge. It was like a sensory farewell or committing to memory what the Men of Letters’ bunker had meant to him. His first home since he was four years old."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't Say That Later Will Be Better

**Author's Note:**

> Story Title and Chapter Titles from U2: Stuck In A Moment
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't claim ownership of Supernatural or the characters. No profit being made. Just playing in the sandbox.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

Dean twisted the iron key in its well oiled lock. Sammy had kept it oiled, even when he was grey and gaunt from the trials, like a drawing of a ghoulish medieval haunting from a dusty tome, the type of which that it sometimes felt they had spent their whole lives researching. 

The click of the mechanism sounded with bitter finality. Dean pressed his palm flat against the bunker door. Not to test it for movement. It wasn’t going to budge. It was like a sensory farewell or committing to memory what the Men of Letters’ bunker had meant to him. His first home since he was four years old. Dean closed his eyes. His brain replayed his grieving rage, throwing his carefully displayed weapons to the floor, tearing the sheets from his memory foam mattress, tossing his clothes, until finally he had slept amid the chaos. That was after...

After... _There is no more Sam_

After... he had found different sheets, other ones carefully pressed and folded by hands over sixty years ago, of such quality that they had not yellowed with age. He had wrapped Kevin Tran’s body with the reverence and care due to him, a departed family member, friend and prophet. There had been no eyelids to close in a gesture of respect. All Dean could do, and it was all he was capable of doing numbed by events, was give Kevin the hunters’ funeral he had earned. A fifth of Jack raised in toast, Dean had stayed outside until the pyre burnt down. He wondered if Not-Zeke would come back, if Crowley could hear his throat scraping vitriol against the universe, if he might tip forward and be consumed by the fire like Daenerys Stormborn only to emerge whole and re-forged anew by the hand of God. 

He’d called, prayed, to Castiel. Lying on the floor by Kevin’s body with its smoldering eyes and unbeating heart, he had prayed that he needed Cas, needed help, but nothing happened. Cas had said he was an angel again but didn’t have full mojo, maybe he couldn’t hear those desperate prayers, maybe he could but Dean had forced him to leave and now it was time to taste his own rancid medicine. It was a hard pill to swallow, sticking in his throat and pushing against his trachea and gullet until he couldn’t breathe or speak or weep anymore. Dean thought he might have passed out but didn’t remember the details of the panic attack, if that is what it had been. _Sam is gone_

When he opened his eyes, azure blue ones did not stare into his. No sound of landing wings met his ears. The bunker was empty and cold... Foreign. He knew now why John departed Lawrence for a life on the road. There was no rulebook that said that they couldn’t have used Lawrence as a base. Those times they had spent a school semester in Missouri or Minnesota, could have been Lawrence. But without Mary, Lawrence could never be home again. Dean understood that now. The bunker was tainted by death, befouled by an angel that Dean had allowed in. The enemy within who Dean had coaxed into his brother, against his will, without his consent... and now that motherfucker said that Sam...

Dean had dared to hope that he had found his home. Dared to believe he could nest and enjoy there in as much safety and comfort as their lives permitted. He had dropped his guard, began to think of Zeke as an ally, or at least a trustable frenemy. Hell, Crowley was more trustable. The deposed King was fuming that Abaddon was reneging on deals he would have honored. Crowley was in the dungeon. Dean was leaving but he couldn’t think of the demon now. Perhaps Not-Zeke would return and smite him if he was bothered.

Dean picked his duffel off the dirt and slung it over his shoulder. He dried his damp eyes with his free hand, then scrubbed over his mouth and chin. Slipping into Baby’s drivers’ seat was a new stab of pain. No-one to ride shotgun. Castiel wasn’t answering, or couldn’t hear. Garth was MIA. Charlie was in a whole other dimension. Too many good people were dead and gone. _Sam is gone._

If highway patrol pulled him over... he’d be a sure fire DUI... but if they asked him where he was headed, he wouldn’t know. He needed this, to drive, to watch miles fall under Baby’s wheels, to put distance between then and now. 

It got colder and darker as Dean headed north. He was numb to the temperature. The Impala’s lights lit enough of the world. The decision to go north had been random. He’d turned left when he met the two lane road outside Lebanon. Hours after dark just shy of Jamestown, North Dakota Dean spotted a barn and lightning struck tree that pinged a memory. The next turn off led to a shambled old shack that they had used when Leviathan meant they had to stay under the radar. There was no electricity. It had been lit by blue battery powered lights and Sam had charged his laptop at diners. However it was dry and had a working wood burning stove. It was an option if Dean Winchester wanted to fade into obscurity, to step back until he could see and think of anything else expect a loop of Kevin’s misplaced trust in him and that there might be _No more Sam_

With his socks against the door of the stove and a long necked bottle in his hand, Dean tried again...

“Cas? Cas Man if you can hear me?” He paused to lick his lips and think of the futility of this plea, “Cas? I’ve fucked everything up. I’ve.... I need you. I don’t know what I said yesterday. Maybe my prayer sounded like I wanted a favor or for you to use your new angel powers... I don’t know if there is anything you can do but come... come here to me...” Dean gulped, guilt rising like waves of yellow bile, “I’m the one who told you to stay away, but I was wrong, so very wrong Cas. Please. This is me, saying please...”

Dean waited, breath held, but there was no rush of wings, no deep graveled hello, just silence and falling snow against the cracked window panes.


	2. It's a long way down to nothing at all

The cold woke him. The stove had burned down to nothing and Arctic temperatures invaded the ramshackle cabin. Dean reached his hand towards his aching head. His throat was raw and parched with that sickly coated tongue and furred teeth that a night of drinking to oblivion brought. Using the back of the sofa and then the peeling wall for support the hung-over hunter made slow progress to the bathroom. The tiny room with its shower cubicle and battered sink might have been forced into the building as an afterthought. It did not help to remember how he had ribbed Sammy that the cabin had not been built for sasquatches. Dean spat a bloody mess into the sink. He turned the faucet, but nothing poured out. Smacking his forehead Dean remembered they had turned off the stopcock when they had left. He snorted thinking that no-one had been by in all the intervening time. The water in the toilet bowl was giving a good impression of Purgatory’s stinkiest rock pools. Dean had to relieve his urgent bladder, but as soon as, he made his way outside to turn on the water. He’d need to bring in more logs too. Suspecting he’d have only brown sludge until the pipes ran clean, he snagged a bottle of water from the Impala. Chucking it down, he felt marginally more human. The snow was not deep but he left a trail of boot prints as he trudged back indoors. He noticed a missed call on his cell but ignored it to brush his teeth. 

There was a piece missing from the frameless mirror above the sink. The small grimy window lent an eerie half light to the room. Dean ran a hand over his stubble. He looked and felt like he had been fleeing through the undergrowth of God’s armpit. He should be battered, bloodied and covered in filth. The outside didn’t reflect the inside. Not-Zeke’s violence had only left him with a tender spot on his jaw. He tested it for range of movement, but the consequence of the blow was negligible, probably wouldn’t even bruise dark enough to be seen under his scruff. 

Dean tried to kick himself into gear. If he wasn’t moving on then he needed to get supplies and go to a diner. He tapped the broken mirror. No marks, or wounds to show what had happened. Only the mark of a burned down pyre in the earth outside Lebanon. No blemishes on Dean’s skin, when Kevin was dead and Sam was trapped inside the being that Dean had rushed foolishly into accepting as someone he could trust with Sammy’s life. 

“You were backed into a corner. You had to do it to save Sammy.” He tried to convince his reflection. The mirror Dean scoffed at the lame words, excuses for all the endless lies. His own face accused him of being dumb and reckless. The image was unforgiving, haunted…

The strains of The Zep jerked Dean out of his futile musing. He had to peel his fingers from the porcelain bowl, unaware he had gripped it so fiercely. His phone was vibrating across the dirt grey carpet by the leg of the sagging sofa. Blunt fingers fumbled to pick it up.

“Hey?” Dean managed with a hoarse voice.

“Hello Dean.”

Suddenly more aware with an icy water shock, “Cas? Man? What the hell? I’ve been praying to you like a NASCAR driver heading for the wall.”

“This temporary grace is functional but your prayers transmitted as incoherent and dulled by the alien frequency.” 

“Speak American Cas.” Dean huffed, “You’re saying you knew I was praying but not what?”

“In estimation.” Castiel paused, “I must travel by human means. My abilities are limited. This pay phone has been the first I have come across. There are significantly fewer of these telephonic conveniences than when I first came to earth with Uriel.”

Dean listened to the words but the meaning wasn’t so important. It was the sound of Castiel’s voice, deep and sure, offering balm to his fractured soul. Castiel had not forsaken him. He’d been curtailed by circumstance. He was late but he was answering. Dean noticed that Cas had stopped speaking. “Where are you Cas?”

“Malachai took me to the East Coast. I am in a Greyhound Bus Terminal. I commenced my journey towards you when you called. I apologize for my inability to communicate. My cell phone was lost during Malachai’s torture, and in my haste to depart I failed to retrieve it.” 

Dean wanted Cas to keep talking. He wondered if he could ask him to stay on the line, maybe he had enough grace to override the need to pay for the call. With Castiel speaking Dean felt less alone, more in touch with the rest of humanity, which was pretty darn weird seeing as Castiel had rejoined the ranks of the celestial. Cas was still talking about his lost cell and how he had memorized Dean’s numbers.

“Wait you were tortured?” Dean interrupted.

“That is unimportant. I survived and learned much.” Castiel intoned. “But I am making my way to Kansas.”

“Wait Cas, that’s great,” Dean blew out a breath, “But I’m not there anymore. It’s lost now.”

“What? I don’t understand Dean.”

“I left.”

“You left? With Sam? Did you tell him about Ezekiel’s death?” Castiel asked cautiously.

Dean knew he made a sound, something like the noise a small animal makes when you have to end them to use their blood in a spell. 

“Where are you Dean?” It was firm, commanding.

“Outside Jamestown, North Dakota. In a cabin.” Dean forced the words out. “It’s snowing Cas.”

“OK. Stay there. I’ll change my ticket.”

Dean nodded. “Kevin…”

“I gathered.” Castiel said succinctly. “The snatches of your prayer and the wavelength disturbance from a new prophet. He was a brave young man.”

“I…” Dean didn’t know how to say he had let Kevin down, failed to protect him, or give him warning of Not-Zeke, left his young friend unprepared to defend himself from the surprise attack. “The angel… Not Zeke… he…”

“An angel killed a prophet of the lord?” Castiel sounded outraged. “Did you summon him? Why did you call him if he had already healed Sam?”

“I fucked up, fucked fucked up. Jeez, Cas. The frigging bastard is wearing Sam. Alright? He’s freaking using Sam as his meatsuit. And Sammy doesn’t…. didn’t know. I did it. I…crap… I can’t do this over the phone.” Dean cradled the cell in his hand. He tipped his finger to the screen to put Cas on speaker. He could see Castiel leaning into a bus terminal wall, dressed in that Fed suit, earnest in his words, focused on his mission.

“I understand.” Castiel said. 

Dean knew Castiel could not understand all that he had done. The way he sent Castiel away when newly human and in need of his aid and friendship. 

“I can’t,” Dean gulped. “You don’t know…”

“We will talk when I arrive.” Castiel promised his voice softer. “You can explain and we will work it out.”

“You make it sound easy,” Dean huffed but a small part of him responded to Castiel’s faith that whatever dumb move Dean had made to fuck things up, it could be fixed, could be rectified with them working together.

“I believe I can get a bus to Minneapolis and change there. I am on my way Dean.”

“What about the angel war? Aren’t you mojo-ed up to fight?” Dean asked flinching away from the reverberations of all the angelic crap going down around them.

“It is inadvisable for one solider to face an army.” Castiel answered, “I was seeking neutral parties like Muriel.”

“Who?”

“She came to my aid, and paid the price for her kindness.” Castiel’s voice was back to being grim. To others there was little change in inflection when Castiel spoke as an angel but Dean knew how to read his minute variances in tone and pace.

“Is it a curse to befriend us?” Dean asked rhetorically, not expecting an answer.

“I have never found it to be so. We fight a battle. There are many much regretted casualties. But it has never been a curse to be your friend.”

That burning searing pain clenched Dean’s chest again. Before he could contemplate how to respond to that statement Castiel had to go. His time was elapsed. There were tickets to be exchanged and buses to catch.

The shack seemed more veiled in silence when the call ended. Dean wondered if life really did go on outside the rotting walls, perhaps it was an illusion. Maybe it all was. Once there was a wraith and a psychiatric hospital and a hot doctor who believed Dean was seriously ill. He shook the thought out of his brain. Their lives were too crazy not to be real.

Where was Sam now? Was he asleep, like when the angel took over and he lost time and miles? Not-Zeke didn’t really mean that Sam was gone? Surely the dick angel hadn’t expelled Sam? His baby brother couldn’t be like Jimmy Novak gone to Heaven? Maybe he could ask Cas?

Dean gazed upwards at the wood paneled ceiling. “Hey Princess? You up there? Sharing a pitcher with Bobby and Ash and maybe your Jess? I’m a selfish sonnvabitch, cuz I hope you aren’t. I hope that douchnozzle I trusted to heal you has just turned out the lights for a while. Fuck it.”

A grumbling roll from his stomach reminded Dean he hadn’t eaten since whenever. He’d bought Twinkies at a gas station. Dean had them with beer for breakfast, lunch or something. Maybe he should have offered to pick Cas up, met him somewhere, but he couldn’t drive back down south. Learning that Cas would have to transfer buses and would not arrive until maybe the next day or the one after did not make Dean despondent. It was enough that Castiel was coming. Dean resolved that he would be at the stop in downtown Jamestown waiting for his bus to arrive.


	3. And if our way should falter

The buxom server was nearing forty but the years had treated her well. Her auburn hair was bottle dyed and her batting eyelashes tinted. She smiled pleasantly as she showed Dean to a vacant booth at the back of the diner. It was an older establishment with chipped tables and mended upholstery on the bench seats. The chalk board outside that promised the best breakfast in the state had tempted Dean. He was aware of his rumpled clothes and that he hadn’t risked a shower with the cabin water. The pipes had yet to run clean. Dean thought they would. He remembered having running water the last time. He hoped he wasn’t getting their hideouts confused. On autopilot Dean took the seat facing the exit and responded to the peach uniformed waitress’s flirting with a cheeky grin. The menu was large and the sort of laminate that had been wiped down repeatedly. His server left him to choose.

Dean’s eyes lasered in on the chubby glass salt shaker in the centre of the table. He could see the grains of salt mounded towards the middle as if it had just been replenished. A thought occurred that Salt and Dean had the most constant relationship in his life. It protected him, flavored bland chow, circled him and was carried in huge hessian bags in the Impala’s trunk. His life resembled the fine milled table salt that would slip through his fingers, uncontrollable, slipping through the gaps onto the floor. He reached out and unscrewed the tarnished lid pouring grains through the fingers of his left hand. They formed an uneven pile on the shiny surface. Dean used his pointer finger to draw a spiral of ever decreasing circles of loss and grief. Then he blew feather-light over his abstract design scattering grains like snow across the table.

“Sir? Excuse me Sir? Are you alright?”

Dean raised his head. The service smile and flirting lashes had gone. Her eyes bled concern, like Sammy with a grieving witness. Dean’s gaze moved to the vacant bench seat. His palm landed on the rough texture of sprinkled salt.

“Sir? Have you had bad news? A shock? Can I call someone for you?”

Dean blinked, “My friend is coming.”

“Oh,” There was a smile again but one of relief, “You have somebody joining you?”

“Not to eat. He doesn’t need to now, at least I think so.”

The waitress’s eyebrows furrowed. Dean could see the pencil filling in the fine hairs. 

“Tomorrow. He is coming tomorrow.” Dean swallowed. That didn’t make sense to the stranger but it was too great an effort to clarify. Dean knew there was something up with his thought process. Maybe she was right. He had had a shock. He laughed at the inadequacy of using the word ‘shock’ to describe what he had done and the consequences of it. Her face told him the abrupt laugh was inappropriate. He bit his lip. The saline sting of tears burned his eyes. He cleared his throat, “I’ll have…”

The menu lay unread to the right of the table. He had to eat. Something had to fill the burning abyss, the acidic pit in his belly. 

The waitress took pity on him. Dean knew it was pity. She used that voice. The one for the infirm and those who needed aid with normal everyday things. No snarky comment rose to mind. No fight to prove her wrong. He was Dean Winchester. He didn’t need help ordering his breakfast. 

“Our cook does a mean omelet. Flashes the top so it’s all crispy-like. You gotta try it with the maple cured bacon.”

“Yeah, yeah, bacon is always good. I’ll have that and a coffee too, Ma’am.”

The lady took the menu back. She patted his shoulder, “Name is Viola, Son. No need for Ma’am.”

Dean felt her touch linger after she departed to give in his order. 

Clearing his half eaten plate and empty cup, Viola asked if he had enjoyed his meal. Dean lied. He was good at that. He told her it was delicious and apologized for his lack of appetite. It had tasted of nothing, textured of dust and had stuck in his throat. He left a generous tip and headed for the grocery store.

His breath shortened, head down as he navigated around other shoppers thorough the greens and organic produce. He thought of Smith Center Wholefoods where he’d stock up to feed Sammy, make him healthy dinners, take care of his baby brother… turn it into the ultra-FUBAR.

Castiel liked burritos and nachos. Or maybe only Gas’n’Sip Steve did? Should he buy food for Cas? Would it be insulting to treat him like a human now that he had his juice back? Dean stood in front of the shelves of Mexican and Tex-Mex until he cursed it and stormed off to the beers. 

Why had Not-Zeke gone on a beer run? Kevin had said he was going out more. How long had Sam not been Sam? Since the night in the bar with Cas? Before that? Sam had felt better, been going for runs again, then he was too tired to keep up. Was that when the angel took over? Or was it later, listening in on Sam, overhearing Dean’s words with Kevin about the sigil?

“Can I help you sir? Are you looking for something?” An acne-ridden teen in the store uniform was staring at him intently.

“Huh, yeah, have you any local beers?” Dean covered up. How long had he been standing in front of these shelves? Had they watched him on the security feed, then sent Chuckie from the Rugrats out to deter him from pilfering the stock? 

Dean’s brain caught up again. He was being given directions to a good liquor store. He nodded. His cart had a gallon of water, a bag of salt and four energy bars. He checked out and left the store. The cashier with her wooden crucifix asked God to bless him.


	4. You've Got Yourself Stuck In A Moment

There was blood dripping down Dean’s hand under his coat sleeve, a slow fall onto the ground. The alley was quiet and still. The angel banishing sigil that he had hastily drawn on the wall behind the dumpster remained un-activated. 

As he had loaded his few purchases into the rear seat of the Impala, the cashier with the solid wooden crucifix appeared. She stepped out from a heavy fire door and tilted her head in that ‘connecting to angel radio’ way. Dean acted quickly, sliding on the frozen ground to the other side of the smelly food dumpster. By the time he had sliced his lower arm and crudely smudged the symbol onto the rough plastered wall with his fingertips, she had lit a cigarette and was grouching on her cell phone about being asked at the last minute to extend her shift at work. She wasn’t an angel. Dean was part relieved and part bothered about his spidey-sense being out of whack. 

What would he have done if she was an angel? One of Bartholomew’s crew by her appearance, he could have blasted her across the planet, but then what? He tried to work out consequences. There were so many possibilities. He knew firsthand how small changes could delete possible futures. Making a decision was a huge responsibility. Angels were everywhere now, occupied by killing each other maybe, but Dean could cross paths with one or a bus full at any time. 

If he asked Castiel to stay a while with him would that put the newly juiced up angel in danger? Should he try and pray to Castiel to stay away? If Cas called him again to tell him which bus he would arrive on, should he put him off? There was a children’s story in a book that he used to read to Lil’Sammy at night. They had lost the tattered book eventually. It had been left behind in some motel room, but the tale of the boy who cried wolf stuck in Dean’s mind. The first time and the second time the boy said the wolf had come, the town rallied and hunted for the non-existent beast. But when the attention deprived lonely boy had called the third time, when the wolf was really attacking, no one came. If Dean sent Castiel away a third time, maybe he would never come back. Dean had turned his back on his friend in need twice, maybe a third rejection would be unforgivable, even if the risk this time would be told with honesty. Three strikes and you’re out. He couldn’t risk it. He’d take the other risk of angel attacks. He’d cut a swath through Purgatory so he could fight alongside Castiel. They would have each other’s backs. Dean was as sure of that as he could be of anything now.

Dean wrapped his arm in a clean rag, loaded the car and drove back to the cabin. The state roads had been cleared of snow but the light fall that morning had coated the laneway to the shack in another frozen layer. The Impala was undefeatable and clung to the asphalt. Dean patted her flank like a well loved horse once she was parked around the side. He wished he had thought to bring her tarp from the garage. Nothing he could do now. It wouldn’t be Baby’s first time exposed to the elements.

Dean set up the battery lights either side of the sofa. He stoked up the stove embers and got a decent blaze going. The water was clean enough to wash. Dean took a brief cold shower using shampoo everywhere. He’d forgotten body wash. He was chilled when he emerged, rapidly dressing in as many layers as possible out of his duffel. He put a clean dressing on his knife wound. A Kleenex wiped the tumbler he had used the previous evening. The first finger of bourbon scorched his gut. It was a good burn, a familiar friend. 

Trying not to think of Sam screaming under the angel’s control, or lost in a dark limbo, proved impossible. To avoid thoughts of what Sam might be going through was like trying not a pick a scab or a hang nail. Dean had never asked Sam what it was like to be an occupied vessel, too concerned with figuring out what was up with Robo-Sam and then with the aftereffects of The Cage. Dean only had Jimmy’s ‘chained to a comet’ and Donnie the vegetative ex-Raphael vessel to go by. If somehow they got the scheming assbutt out of Sammy, what condition would his brother be in? Dean gulped down glass after glass fighting to think of Busty Asian Babes’ centerfold, Rhonda Hurley’s panties, Carmelita’s maracas, Castiel’s hands, Dr Sexy in his boots and scrubs, what Charlie could be doing in Oz… but his mind wasn’t listening and everything turned a circle and came back to Sam. Only when his head swam, blood pounding in his ears, body heavy with liquor did Dean finally tip his head back on the arm of the sofa and wish for nightmares of Hell.

He made an effort the next morning. There was another freezing shower and a change of clothes. Dean ate his energy bars like medicine and rehydrated to flush out some of the blood alcohol. When the Greyhound from Minneapolis pulled in, he was leaning on the side of the Impala across the street with his ankles crossed. He saw Castiel rise from a seat on the opposite side and walk down the center of the bus. He was taller than the other disembarking passengers, wearing a suit jacket, and Dean could see his hair was mussed, perhaps from leaning against the glass. 

When the bus pulled away Castiel stood straight backed and every inch the garrison warrior. Dean licked his lips nervously. There had been something endearing about human Cas during the little time they had together. Then Castiel saw him. His face changed, eyes more open, corners of his lips turning up. He crossed the street with long distance eating strides, until he was toe to toe, invading Dean’s personal space in a way that was both familiar and reassuring.

Castiel searched Dean’s eyes, narrowing his own as if he was figuring him out all over again. He reached a hand out and cupped Dean’s upper arm. His fingers pressed in offering support and concern. Castiel’s lips moved into a compassionate smile, then he spoke low and kindly, “Hello Dean.”

Dean gulped down over that damn golf ball in his throat and grabbed onto some of the solace Castiel’s touch offered, “Hey Cas.”


	5. The Colors That You Bring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got fluffier than I intended... Had to change the chapter title because it was too angsty when I finished writing!... Idk...

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Dean you need to eat,” Castiel’s blue eyes bore into Dean as if he was examining him at a molecular level, “and sleep.”

“I sleep.” Dean protested, shuffling his boots only marginally on the icy ground.

“Uninterrupted sleep? How long?” Castiel demanded gravely, taking a half pace back out of Dean’s space.

Dean moistened his lips, “Huh, dunno Cas, kinda lost track of time.”

Castiel curled his lip in disapproval, “I have a great appreciation for the benefits of sustenance and slumber due to my recent experiences. We should go eat.”

Dean was happy to let Castiel take the lead on what they did next. “So, ahem, you’re still eating then?”

“Not out of necessity.” Castiel rounded the Impala to take shotgun.

“And no flapping of wings to poof down next to me?” Dean enquired as pulled open the door and sat in.

“I do not poof.” Castiel protested with an ever so slight hint of amusement. Dean thought maybe some human qualities had clung on to newly angelic Cas. A sense of humor would be a good residue. “I may be able to tap enough grace to relocate a short distance, perhaps from one building into the next for example. It was unfortunate that I could not travel to you in my accustomed manner. I regret that I was not here sooner.”

“It’s alright Cas, you’re here now.” Dean patted Castiel on the thigh. Then he swallowed hard. What the hell? Where did that move come from? Shit Winchester, keep your hands on the wheel. Castiel didn’t care or notice as far as Dean could tell. Instead he was offering his condolences again for Kevin’s death. Dean let him finish but he couldn’t talk about that right now. Couldn’t explain how he should have protected the young prophet and how his web of deceit had contributed, caused, condemned… 

“Right. Diner, Cas?”

“That would be fine, Dean.” Castiel was sneaking eye slanted glances in his direction. Dean fixed his eyes on the street, finding a space for the Impala outside the retro diner where he had breakfasted the previous day. Dean thought he must look better, knew he smelled better, than his last visit because Viola gave him an approving look as she led them back to the last table. Dean tossed his scarf and heavy jacket into the corner of the booth. Then he slipped into the same side while Castiel rather awkwardly removed his suit jacket and slid in across from him. To be honest Dean preferred the old suit and trench coat. He needed to ask Cas about the coat.

“I see your friend arrived Darlin’,” Viola commented as she handed over the massive laminated menus. “Special’s Spiced Lamb Patty and Fixings.”

Dean mumbled thanks and raised the menu close to his face. He didn’t particularly want to see Castiel’s reaction to discovering that he had been telling random strangers that he was expected. He could hear Viola’s uniform rustle and caught a sideways view as she leaned towards Castiel’s side of the table. Her voice dropped to a whisper, “I hope you’ll watch out for him”.

What was that supposed to mean? Castiel wasn’t his frigging big brother or some sort of freaking caretaker. Dean dropped the menu to make some kind of protest, maybe that he had been having a bad day, and Mrs. Viola-Nosey-Goody-Two-Shoes should keep her beeswax to herself. 

However Castiel beat him to it. “Dean is capable of watching out for himself.”

Way to go Cas. Dean smiled. Of course Castiel had to keep speaking. His tone dropped to the ‘profound’ level, “I will not allow harm to befall him. He is in my charge.”

Whoop-di-freaking-do. If their server hadn’t concluded that Dean was a newly emancipated loon, she certainly did now. He cleared his throat and made his temporary escape, “I’ve gotta, you know, restroom.”

“Of course Dean I understand,” Castiel smiled imparting his satisfaction that he could comprehend the demands of the human body. All Dean could think was that sounded like he had asked for and received permission. He freaking was never going to be able to come back to this diner again.

Dean heaved a sigh of relief that Viola was occupied with other patrons when he returned. There was no way Dean was telling Castiel about the ‘salt incident’ so he couldn’t explain why the short exchange with their waitress had verged on the cringe-factor. There was no salt on the table. Viola reappeared with a pitcher of water, glasses, breadsticks, and a few of those single serving paper salts. Dean bit down hard on his lip and said nothing.

“What would you like Dean?” Castiel asked, “I’m paying.”

“Huh,” Dean did a double blink and tried to come up with something more eloquent. “I’ll have the bacon double cheese burger, no salad, and a beer.”

“Dean and I will have cream soda. I would like the grilled cheese with salsa.” Castiel passed his menu back with a smile.

“What the fuck, man?” Dean hissed, “You can’t frigging countermand my drinks order like that. It makes me look like a pussy.”

“Give me your hand.”

“What? No.” Dean folded his arms.

“Give me your hand.” Castiel repeated with infinite patience.

“Is this some kinda pull my finger light bulb shattering gig?” Dean asked with suspicion laid on thick.

“No. I want your hand.”

Dean snorted a chuckle, “I don’t think you know how that sounded.” However the amusement made him relent.

“The other one.” Castiel pointed to Dean’s left arm.

“Freaking hell Cas. Remember we’re in public.” He extended his arm across the table.

Castiel turned Dean‘s hand over so it was palm up. He hitched back the sleeves of Dean’s flannel and long tee so he could touch with two fingers onto the soft fleshy hollow of Dean’s wrist near his pulse point. “Your blood alcohol level is alarmingly elevated for a person who does not appear to be intoxicated. Just as this grace limits my abilities to move through space-time, I find that its power to heal is curtailed. However I can do this.”

A soft glow moved from Castiel’s finger pads into Dean’s skin. It seemed paced at slow-mo action replay compared to other times Castiel had healed him. The scab from where Dean had slit his arm to draw the unnecessary banishing sigil healed up. His persistent low grade headache vanished. The queasy morning-after stomach settled and Dean was frigging hungry.

“Thanks Cas.” Dean found he was reluctant to pull his arm back.

A half-smile of appreciation and the way Castiel gently withdrew his touch caused Dean’s stomach to flutter momentarily with something that wasn’t guilt or alcohol poisoning. He busied himself by removing the wound dressing and stuffing it into his pocket for disposal later.

“So what is with treating me to lunch? We could go Dutch y’know?” Dean leaned back easy in his seat. He was saving the crap-fest conversation for when they got back to the cabin. Hopefully Castiel would agree with his unvoiced plan.

“We are not from The Netherlands or Pennsylvania.” Castiel intoned.

Dean rolled his eyes, almost concluding his thought about Castiel never getting slang or references, when he saw a darned twinkle in Cas’s eye. It had been deliberate. Castiel was joshing him, “You sonnava… You knew what I meant.”

“I may have,” Castiel’s lips twitched as if re-powered Cas’s grace didn’t quite know what to do when joking.

Dean laughed for both of them. “I’m gonna have to be more thoughtful and selective in my references, hey?”

“I would prefer if you remained the same.” Castiel replied in a more grave and serious tone.

“Don’t you ever change, man,” Dean emphasized the ‘you’. The statement brought him back to a long stretch of highway and Castiel’s impeccable timing, after the nightmare 2014 he had been cursed to experience. They both had changed a helluva lot since then. More crap had gone down than in a sewage treatment facility. Yet here they were in a smalltown diner talking like real people. Dean huffed in a mix of disbelief and satisfaction. Another apology percolated up inside him, wanting to plead for Castiel’s understanding and forgiveness. He was saved from breaking the bubble of easy companionship and familial connection by Viola with their meals and sodas. Everyone was entitled to a rest break, Dean figured. Instead of plunging into Dean’s ultimate TARFU situation, for now they could both indulge in the simple pleasure of well cooked tasty food and seeing one another without the threat of imminent annihilation, while everything other damned thing sat on the back burner for a spell.

++++++++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TARFU = Things Are Really Fucked Up


	6. I Know It's Tough

Castiel did not approve of the cabin. He didn’t make a remark but Dean could tell by his finger wiping dirt from the walls and the sideways head tilt at the sagging sofa and empty bottles. 

“So when did you become Rockefeller?” Dean asked with a snort as he pulled two beers out of a six-pack. “Paying for meals and gas.”

Castiel refused the beer with a head shake. “I had savings.”

“Jeez, that Nora must have paid over the odds.” Dean raised his beer in toast.

“I do not believe so. I commenced on minimum wage but after my trial period she raised my hourly rate. I was saving to take a motel room or lodgings.” Castiel said as he examined the tattered curtains and the various wards Dean had painted on the cabin.

“Something wrong with the digs you had?” Dean enquired, plunking down on the sofa, “Hey Cas why don’t ya take the chair? Not gonna stand for the whole night are you?”

Castiel furrowed his brow, “I had no digs. There was enough space on the storeroom floor for my sleeping bag. Nora is a kind person, who did not mention my living arrangements.”

“Wait.” Guilt coiled around Dean’s gut, “The storeroom? That’s why you made me drive all night. Goddammit Cas. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would it have made a difference? You were quite clear about maintaining our distance.” Castiel said despondently. 

Dean pushed regrets away, “Is that why Cas? Why you have been so quick to take up wings again?”

Dean examined the unexpectedly bitter tone to his words. He felt that he had no right to feel either betrayed or a sense of loss that Castiel had revoked his human state. Dean knew he was the one who had driven Cas away, squashed his hopes that he and Sam would teach him and guide him as he found his feet. He closed his eyes and took a deep inhale.

“Dean?” It was a tenderly asked question about his wellbeing.

“I’m good. I do want to know. Why’d you switch it up? I mean I’d thought you were making a life there in Idaho.” The hunter huffed, “but seems I got that wrong too.”

Castiel raised his brows in an all too human expression of disbelief. “My siblings are at war…”

Dean interrupted. He hadn’t meant to offend Cas, “Yeah, man, I get it. Angel on a mission. Righting wrongs…”

“Listen to me.” Castiel commanded in his own interruption, “I have learned. I know I cannot stop Malachai and Bartholomew on my own. They are forming armies. I hope only to convince those on the fences, those of my brethren who believe in our original mission to protect humankind, that they should not join this holy war…”

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. He was listening but what sank in was that Castiel had taken up a new mission, one that didn’t include Dean.

Castiel was still speaking “…not why I had to stoop so low to steal Theo’s grace.”

“What Cas?” Dean had lost the thread of Castiel’s explanation.

Castiel pursed his lips, “I said the war was not why I broke a taboo that is anathema to all angels.”

“Angels can steal each other’s graces?”

“Yes. But you knew this Dean.”

“I did not.” Dean protested.

“Uriel had stored Anael’s around his neck. Metatron…” Castiel gulped, “took mine for his spell.”

“But Anna’s was in a tree?” Dean squinted at Castiel, “So you’ve another angel’s mojo in your grapefruit?”

Castiel sighed, “It is not in my grapefruit. It is complicated. The power of Theo’s grace has reconnected me to the host. The reason I had to do this was that Theo was about to kill me.”

“I get it, Cas. It was you or him. Self defense.”

“No. Dean. They said Ezekiel was dead. I knew if I died you would never find out that the angel who helped you, or claimed to have helped you was not Ezekiel. Sam is my friend. I cherish his friendship dearly. To know that he was possibly in danger and to not be able to warn you… It was too great a risk.”

“You did it for Sam?” Dean gaped.

“Not only for Sam.” Castiel’s voice deepened. “My brethren, the angel Muriel who died in my presence, the humans who will be caught in the crossfire, but yes, for Sam and for you.”

“You gave up a human life,” Dean repeated.

“It wasn’t so great a life Dean.” Castiel pointed out.

“My fault. It coulda been… If I coulda had you at the bunker,” Dean’s chest burned again with everything he had lost. He took a deep breath and let it all out in one go, “But Zeke, Not Zeke, the motherfucker, he told me you had to go. He said he’d blast outta Sammy and leave him to die, if you didn’t go. And I was the cornered rabbit. Trapped in my own freaking lies. Sammy didn’t know Zeke was there. I… did what I had to do. Sam was dying and there was no way to fix him. The trials had frigging melted him and this angel who said he was Ezekiel came and we tricked Sam into saying yes. But Zeke said if Sam found out he could expel him like a snap of his fingers, so I gritted my teeth and did what he said, cos he didn’t want you to see him, cos you’d have pointed your finger and told me that the angel in my brother wasn’t Zeke.”

A light dawned in Castiel’s eyes, “That is why you asked me to leave? Because this angel had taken Sam as his vessel, that he knew that I was on friendly terms with Ezekiel? I would know that he was not…” Castiel worked through it then paused, “I didn’t understand then Dean. It was a testing time. I found it difficult to adjust. It is better not to be human. Not to feel these emotions.”

“I hear you,” Dean croaked, “Don’t know that I’d prefer to be an angel, Cas. And I am… I’m sorry. I should have told you why, should have told Not-Zeke straight out that you are family and he couldn’t ask me that. But he was healing Sam, or he said he was.”

“I see. I understand now what you said about Sam being used as a meat-suit without knowing it. Dean, what I did, taking Theo’s grace is an abhorrence, but to take a vessel without consent... It is heinous, Dean, against every fiber of what it means to be an angel. If I had known that much, without the additional knowledge of Ezekiel’s death, then it would have been… I cannot think of an angel so dark that he would consider such an act. Only the fallen would do such a thing, and they do in their demonic existences.” Castiel clenched his fist as if he could hit this angel who had ‘possessed’ Sam.

“I didn’t know,” Dean breathed. “I didn’t think. Even freaking Satan needed Sam to say yes.”

Castiel sighed, “Lack of such angel lore is not your fault Dean. This thief, this lowlife, he must have been one of the imprisoned ones. The lawbreakers whose offences were so grievous that Our Father, or more likely Michael and Naomi, deemed that they should be contained in Heaven’s prison. Malachai spent time there, but he was disobedient not criminal.”

“Anna was there,” Dean remembered.

“And the angel, he left when you told him you knew about Ezekiel?” 

“He…” Dean took a long breath and then another one, “He told me Sam was gone, no more. He laid me out, and then marched to find Kevin, and Kevin must have thought it was Sammy, and he just… he smote him. And I lay there with Kevin’s eyes gone and his life gone, and the angel left.”

Dean had dropped to his knees. He stared unseeing at the filthy carpet in the same posture he had maintained beside Kevin's body. He hadn’t told Cas about the sigil, or the weird post-it, or the beer in the fridge, or how Kevin had been heavier than he looked. Strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him close. Castiel’s hand cupped the back of his head. Dean’s chest heaved as guilt and grief stormed inside him. He was sheltered by Castiel’s body, unashamed to let go. He knew Cas understood, had seen him at his best and his very worst. 

“I feel so low,” Dean muttered, “I never meant for any of this, but that won’t bring back Kevin or Sam. Cas? What if? What if we can’t get Sam back? What if he really is gone? I don't know what to do.”

“Hush,” Castiel rocked their joined bodies gently, “No Dean. It is not so simple to expel the vessel. We will find Sam and we will reach him.”

Dean took solace in Castiel’s conviction. The angel could be anywhere. Dean had no clue as to how to summon an angel whose name they did not know. But Castiel held him tighter and repeated his promise. The burden of all the secrets that had pressed Dean down into the ground was now a shared one. Castiel had not walked out in disgust. Cas was going to work with him to find Sam. Dean decided to make that his Stone Number One.


	7. I Was Unconscious, Half Asleep

Dean was aware of being held. It was soothing and he leaned back into the body that supported his. There had been no nightmares. He didn’t want to open his eyes and face the shit-storm. Dean flexed his toes and ankles slow to wake. He wasn’t lying down rather his upper body was reclining sideways on Castiel’s lap. On Castiel’s freaking lap, Dean swallowed hard. He’d broken down in front of Cas. Then he’d been held in Castiel’s arms while he sobbed like a little babe. How was he going to look Cas in the eye? Holy Moly, he must have spent the whole night with his head against Cas’s chest and the angel’s arm wrapped over his shoulder, ensuring he didn’t slide onto the dirty floor. Dean ran a tongue over his lips. He needed to brush his teeth. He hoped Castiel wasn’t offended by morning breath. 

“Ahem Cas? You awake?” Dean said without twisting around.

“Yes.” The arm tightened fractionally, letting Dean know he didn’t have to shoot straight up and put a respectful distance between them.

“You didn’t have to sit here all night, dude.” Dean gulped, not adding the extra comment about how he didn’t need the chick flick version of man hugs, because maybe it was okay when it was Cas.

“You needed to sleep.” Castiel stated simply.

Dean grinned. Trust Cas to say exactly the right thing in a dispassionate tone, which was about all that Dean could cope with before his coffee. He indulged in a few glorious breaths. Both of them silent in no hurry to move or part. Finally Dean eased away. He cursed the lack of electricity again. The camping pot of water on the stove took an age to heat. Castiel disappeared briefly, not in a fluttering of wings way. He made himself scare while Dean cleaned up and knocked back his tepid coffee.

“Starbucks?” Dean said with a grin when Castiel pushed open the creaking door.

“We need to leave here.” Castiel had his blank but deadly serious face on.

“Wait, what d’ya mean?” Dean snapped to attention. “Who’s coming?”

“I am not expecting anyone.” Castiel growled. “This place.” He raised a hand, wrinkled his nose and made a gesture so dismissively human, that Dean bit his lip to prevent his laugh being any more than a snort. 

“I am serious Dean. You cannot stay here.”

“Why?” Dean challenged.

Castiel’s eyes tracked a path from the moldy walls, sagging sofa, tin-can on the ashy stove, the empties, the long-cracked window panes and ragged curtains. “This is not suitable accommodation.”

“I’ve stayed in worse. Hell we holed up here for three weeks the last time.”

“Dean,” Castiel’s shoulders slumped from military bearing to appealing for understanding, “You need electricity, good food, hot showers... I know these things now.”

“Listen Martha Stewart, I’ll be fine.”

“I was not finished. I understand the need to do penance."

Dean could have protested that he wasn't punishing himself but instead he scratched his arm.

"Also you need companionship.”

“Huh?” Dean found his voice.

“I found loneliness to be one of the most painful aspects of humanity.” Castiel turned slightly away, “The pain in your belly from lack of food is but a twinge compared to the ache of the homeless and the lost.”

“Sheesh.” Dean blew a long slow breath to calm the rising bile of remorse.

“I conversed with other homeless men. Over time as I found my feet, I grew to like talking to Nora, and took refuge in the normalcy of routine, for instance rolling out my sleeping bag on the storeroom floor.”

Dean’s chest wall pressed down on him. He thought his exquisitely carved ribs might be caving in on his blood-pump. Castiel was making a point about Dean’s current living conditions, but all the horrible things he had done piled up too high in a heap of shame and self-reproach for him to give his friend the attention he deserved.

A hand rested on his shoulder and Castiel’s concerned voice said “Dean?”

“Yo!” Dean puffed. “I’m good. I… hear you.”

“We need to move on.” Castiel insisted, “There may be some lore in the Men of Letters Library that will assist us. Perhaps Kevin had translated a part of the tablet…”

“He took’em. Not-Zeke, he took both tablets.” Dean remembered.

Castiel nodded as if he was storing that piece of knowledge for later, “Kevin’s notes remain?”

Dean nodded, “And he had put together a spell from the tablet and some library tome, but we were spied upon by the sneaky mofo.”

“We need to return there.” Castiel decided.

“Wait.” Dean clenched both his hands into fists. He’d left. He’d locked the door never to return. Now Castiel pointed out they had to head back there to find the answers to how they'd get Sammy back. Dean would freaking walk over hot coals, cut a path through any demon or angel that stood in the way of reaching Sam. Yet there was a wall that he had erected to parcel off his life before. 

“What Dean?” Castiel titled his head a touch. Somehow the familiar move made Dean’s resolve strength. He wasn’t going back alone.

“It’s a long ride. Maybe we need to break it at, y’know, a motel.” Dean scrubbed the back of his neck. A few hours shut eye mid-journey wasn’t going to make much of a difference, but it would give him something, an extension before he had to walk back through that strong iron door. The image and sense memory of his palm against the door only a couple of days earlier filled his mind but this time there was hope. A beam of light pierced the swirling darkness. They would try their damnedest. Dean made a silent vow to Sam, to his baby brother, that he and Cas were coming for him.

“Yes, that would be a plan, as you call it.” Castiel smiled. Then he made a light double click of his tongue and tried his brand of jovial enthusiasm. These attempts always kind of rubbed Dean like sandpaper when he expected velvet, “Let’s get on the road.”

“Hold your horses, Cowboy, we gotta pack up our ride.” Dean pointed at his tossed duffel and small few possessions. 

“I am glad you have agreed. A motel room will be preferable.” Castiel commented as he assisted.

Dean laughed, “You know me, wherever I lay my hat…”

“You certainly deserve better than this falling down structure.” Castiel’s vehemence surprised Dean. He recalled that Castiel always seemed to have more faith in Dean than he held for himself, from that first night when the angel was taken aback that Dean did not believe he deserved to be saved, to now when Dean’s self-belief had plummeted to record lows.

When Baby’s engine purred to life, Dean relaxed his neck and shoulders. Castiel flicked on the radio. Back at the highway Dean’s hold on the wheel tightened. He drew strength from Castiel’s presence, steeled his resolve, and headed south.


	8. A Decent Melody

They didn’t talk much. That was fine by Dean. He’d spoken enough back at the cabin. Everything he had admitted to and details he had left out simmered and stewed inside him. Dean was an expert at shoving away and pushing down crap. If he allowed his fears about Sam to control him he’d be a gibbering mess rocking back and forth, and that wasn’t going to do his baby brother one iota of good. So he did what he always did, he carried on.

The highways had been cleared of snow. Driving with a Castiel who could not flit away, Dean found he was easing down, like maybe some healing grace was being transmitted and circulated by the Impala’s heater. Carrying on with Castiel shouldering some of his burden was working out. Dean had never been a great team player, but being part of a duo, that was his niche. 

North of Aberdeen, Dean’s mind drifted. Castiel was looking out the side window. Dean’s heart pulsed as he imagined Sam adopting his patent awkward body curve that allowed him to grab forty winks with his head against that window. They’d been driving for close to two hours. Maybe it was time for a lunch stop. A gas station surrounded by parked big rigs attracted his attention. Dean pulled Baby up to the pumps.

“Do you wish to stop for a meal?” Castiel asked. His first words in 42 miles, Dean estimated.

“Naw, it’s chock fulla truckers.” Dean waved off the suggestion, “Howsabout I’ll get gas and you get us something to go?”

Castiel extended his arms with his hands clasped behind his back. Dean stared as the white shirt stretched at the buttons, then Castiel dropped his chin and rolled his shoulders. He caught Dean looking and gave a short laugh, “Force of habit.”

“Hey,” Dean’s call out stopped Castiel a few paces beyond the overhanging awning, “Talking about habits, whatever happened to the trench coat?”

“I lost it. It was ripped and I needed clean undamaged clothes.”

“Yeah, OK Man, I get it.” Dean nodded hearing a weight of regret in those words. He turned to the pump thinking of other hotwired substandard vehicles which had held that cherished coat after Castiel had been lost to the leviathan. It was a shame, but so much had been lost now, that was almost whimsical to include a coat in the list of casualties. 

The day was clear and crisp. Dean had always liked driving through South Dakota and northern Nebraska. He looked forward to the afternoon with Castiel. He thought he might break the journey early so they could have a hot meal and maybe a few drinks in a decent bar. Dean found Castiel examining the candy display in the store. 

“They do not sell pies and they do not group their candies by manufacturer,” Castiel grumbled, “I got spicy burritos with extra cheese. Would you care for something sweet?”

Dean looked at the paper wrapped burritos and two coffees balanced on a cup holder for four drinks. “Thanks Cas, peanut butter cups?”

“One of the tastier options,” Castiel approved.

Dean visualised ‘Steve’ sampling each of the candies that his workplace offered so that he could conscientiously give his opinion to indecisive customers.

They ate in the lot between a Christmas painted Budweiser delivery truck and a huge anonymous 18 wheeler. 

“Are you, ya’know hungry and shit?”

Castiel laughed again. Dean found he was getting used to this marginally less serious version of his friend. It was like months of being human had loosened the stick up his ass.

“Do you mean am I craving food and do I need to expel waste?” Castiel chuckled.

“Hey dude, I’m the one who razzes your manner of speaking. Since when did we sign up to a role reversal?” Dean poked Castiel with his elbow.

“Eat your burrito,” Castiel instructed.

Dean’s question was answered when he made a rest stop an hour later at Huron and Castiel remained in the car. The angel swapped the radio for Creedence Clearwater Revival's Green River. Dean made no token protest about his shotgun rider picking the music because the strains of a true classic suited their journey perfectly. 

Dean couldn’t explain why he asked the gum chewing receptionist of the Aspen Motel in O’Neill, Nebraska for a queen room. Swinging the key around his finger as he walked to their door, he reasoned out that Castiel didn’t need a separate bed because he didn’t need to sleep. The Aspen Motel’s room decor turned out to be so retro that it hurt. The candlewick bed cover, filter paper drip coffee maker, a TV as deep as it was wide, a copy of Gideon and menus for the town takeout places made their accommodation generic and timeless. Dean dumped his duffel and commenced salting the window and door while Castiel drew wards under the paintings of snow capped Rockies. Dean lifted the carpet for an entrance way devil’s trap. Then Castiel sat with an elbow on the circular table watching Jeopardy, while Dean enjoyed the pleasure of a hot shower. 

“You want to hit the town?” Dean asked while he towel dried his hair.

“I am amenable.” Castiel stood up to leave.

“Listen Cas, seeing as you’re into changing up the uniform, how’s about you lose the Fed Suit?” Dean suggested.

“I am not attempting to blend in. My attire is unimportant.”

Dean huffed in affectionate exasperation. He pulled off his green jacket and shook it out, “Here. It’s clean and will work with the suit pants and shirt.”

“If you insist,” Castiel made a small smile as removed his jacket and replaced it the one Dean had removed off his own back.

Dean tisked. He closed the gap between them, opened the top two buttons of the white poplin and turned up its collar. Then he mussed Cas’s hair with a laugh and a rough head patting.

“Better.” He pronounced, “Come on Cas, let’s go.”

Dean thought he might have been the subject of an eye roll. When Castiel did not attempt to fix his hair or re-adjust the shirt, Dean counted that as a win. He grabbed his heavier winter jacket off the end of the bed. The snow had melted during the sunny afternoon. They walked down East Douglas St and jaywalked across the giant concrete shamrock. Dean pulled Cas into a steakhouse that advertised a happy hour. The joint was busy with a mixed crowd and was heated to a cosy enough level for Dean to remove his overshirt.

“You’re not gonna override my beer order are you?” Dean hissed over his menu. 

“No hard liquor.” Castiel glared.

“Geez. You’da loved the twenties, man. Castiel Angel of Prohibition.” Dean grouched.

“I think you will find that the Angel of Temperance is Cassiel not Castiel. You have no idea how many prayers go astray.” Castiel looked pissed.

“Hey are you saying I just made an angel joke?” Dean threw his head back and laughed.

“It is not funny Dean. People who wanted a blessed Thursday and those who sought serenity in abstinence...” Castiel stopped. His eyes seemed to rest on the exposed long line of Dean’s neck. “You know, it was a good joke. It translates well into Enochian.”

“You tell me one.” Dean pressed. 

“A joke?” 

“Yeah, Man, a joke.”

“It is difficult to translate... What happens when you send a committee to do one angel’s work?” Castiel snorted.

“How would I know?” Dean protested with a chuckle.

“The duck-billed platypus.” Castiel choked with mirth.

“The what?” Dean had a vague memory of some National Geographic show with weird creatures.

“Give me your phone.” Castiel held out his hand. He muttered that he wasn’t eating this time when Dean ordered his steak and a pitcher of the local brew. 

Dean’s cell browser displayed various images of the mammal in question when he got it back. He had to admit it looked like a joke animal. 

“Did you ever see a prairie dog?” Castiel asked.

“Plenty of the little critters,” Dean remembered Sammy’s excitement when they were kids if they drove by a few of the cute rodents standing on their hind legs. “Why are they a mash up too?”

“Not at all.” Castiel dropped his eyes to his beer mat, “I had a hand in directing their evolution.”

“You invented prairie dogs. Dude, that is awesome.” Dean beamed.

“I wouldn’t quite say that but I must admit a certain illicit sense of pride in my role in their development.”

“Thursdays and prairie dogs.” Dean clapped Castiel’s shoulder, “You rock.”

“If I had known you would be impressed I’d have played the prairie dog card much earlier.” Castiel accepted a pouring of beer. 

By the time they wandered back to the Aspen Motel, Dean was merry. Instead of drinking to oblivion, he’d enjoyed his evening with Castiel in the laid back atmosphere at the bar. He sang a few bars of Springsteen’s Born To Run while he fumbled for the key to their room. He toed off his boots and dived face down onto the bed.

“Hey Cas, you’ve no bed.” Dean pointed out, only slightly slurred.

“I will take a chair.” Castiel answered, “I know standing by your bed while you sleep makes you uncomfortable.”

“Naw, naw naw, you sleep with me, or not-sleep, but look, miles of room.” Dean shuffled over and patted the left side of the bed. How awesome it would be to have Castiel next to him seemed like a light bulb epiphany in his beer high.

“You are intoxicated.” Castiel pointed out.

“I could have a nightmare and you’d be all the way over there, and last night I slept like a tiny sleepy sleepy baby.” Dean snorted, “Come on, Cas. I won’t bite.”

A warm flush of surprised pleasure spread over Dean when Castiel removed the jacket and his loafers to lie flat on his back beside him.

“See, awesome,” Dean murmured as he curled onto his side and flopped an arm over Castiel’s chest.

In the deep of the night Dean woke. He had curled up so that his back was pressing into Castiel’s chest. They weren’t spooning because Castiel hadn’t got that memo. Instead Castiel’s hand rested lightly on his back. 

“Things are good Cas,” Dean whispered in that hushed voice reserved for those single digit hours where normal people fear to tread. He knew Castiel was not asleep. When there was no response to his comment Dean added for clarity, “Between you and me?”

It couldn’t be said that shit hadn’t gone down between them, around them and caused by each of them, but enough water had flowed under the bridge on Dean’s side that he bore no animosity to his friend. He chewed on the soft fleshy interior of his bottom lip in the infinite seconds that it took Castiel to answer.

“Yes Dean. We are good.”

Dean huffed in satisfaction, pushed back a touch more into Castiel’s supportive body, and his eyes slipped shut.


	9. The Light You Brought To Me

Dean drained his coffee cup. He watched Castiel with new eyes. They had spent two nights wrapped up in each other. Granted the first night Dean had been having some kind of emotional car crash and last night his beer head had wanted to have Castiel as close as possible. What was staggering Dean in the light of a new day, was that Castiel had been more than amenable to sharing his space. There had been no protest or tell tale traces of reluctance, just a willingness to spend the night pressed together. 

There had been times, hell if Dean admitted it many times, when he had considered something more than friendship. Moments when he wondered if there could be a deeper level of intimacy to their bond, even more so after he knew Jimmy was enjoying the great advertising department in the sky. Dean had never cheated on Lisa, but that year when his heart had been emptied and she had done her best to fill it, he’d wondered at times what if Cas showed up? There had been other rare occasions; in the days before Stull, deep in Purgatory, before they knew about Naomi, in the minutes before Not-Zeke told him that Castiel had to leave the bunker.... Dean had never told anyone about his boner when Castiel’s coating of bees had lifted off the hood of the Impala and swarmed away. 

The catch was that there was always some crap going down in his rollercoaster of a life. Hunters didn’t get to have normal. Dean huffed an internal laugh thinking that a relationship with a multidimensional celestial warrior could hardly be labelled normal.

He placed his coffee cup onto the saucer. Dean eschewed saucers as a rule, but Castiel had brought him his coffee. He licked his lips in preparation. Was he really going to ask? Maybe he could try his own brand of subtle, then if Cas gave him nothing, he could back out with a morsel of dignity still intact. 

“Cas, have you ever?” Dean looked down at his own body and then made a body sweep of the angel standing before him with his eyes. 

“Dean are you OK?” Castiel squinted at him.

Too subtle. Dean winced. “Y’know. Do you think of me as your buddy?”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed to slits and his head listed to the side. “A buddy is a pal or a friendly comrade. You Dean Winchester are much more than that to me.”

Dean’s breath caught. His heart did some kind of impossible back flip in a pike position with freaking bells on. 

“Dean, you...” Castiel paused for a moment as if searching his inner lexicon, “NANAEEL GAH NENNI OLLOR IO-IAD TOANT OL HOATH”

The intonation reverberated through Dean’s body and soul. His lungs expanded to capacity sucking in air to gasp, “What was that?”

“I said our profound bond is abiding.” 

Castiel’s eyes darted away making Dean suspect that the arcane Enochian had a deeper layer of meaning. He huffed and gave the angel a cheek splitting grin, “Guess that means we’re more than friends.”

Happy with his progress but not wanting to press Castiel into more than he might be ready for, Dean stood to don his layers. He walked to the duffel on the corner of the bed seeking a couple of shirts to put over his grey Henley. Castiel’s hand gripped Dean’s shoulder from behind. A firm tug turned him around. Castiel was right there with his generous lips parted a fraction, ready for speech or to meet Dean’s kiss-deprived ones.

“Do you want this?” Castiel checked. He raised his hand from Dean’s shoulder and cupped his stubble roughened cheek. “Is this what you have been trying to tell me in your obtuse way?”

Was it? Dean asked himself. His throat dried out and his heart seemed to dilate. The organ would be heading for gold at the Olympics if it did any more gymnastics. He let his actions do the talking and raised a corresponding hand. His racing thoughts came to a halt. It seemed so simple to copy Cas’s gesture pulling down lightly with his fingertips sensing the prickle of Cas’s light scruff and the thrumming tingle of something else. He gulped and nodded.

Castiel’s eyes crinkled at the edges.

Dean managed an open smile at the sight of joy on his angel’s face. His licked the chapped skin of his lower lip from left to right in preparation, tasting a corner flake of minty toothpaste that escaped his morning coffee. Dean’s eyes followed the track of Castiel’s tongue as it traced across moistening his lips in parallel. The motion invited Dean to act this time on thoughts that had previously only grazed his consciousness with their impossibility. He bent forward from the waist and moved his hand to splay his fingers on the back of Cas’s neck and into his hair. Castiel’s skin was warm under his shirt collar. Dean applied pressure signalling the other to lean into the kiss. He tasted Castiel’s soft lips with a tentative stroke. Cas opened up for him, darting his own tongue to seek the inner heat of Dean’s upper lip. Then Castiel’s arms were around his neck, resting on his shoulders, and they were kissing properly deeply with hips moving and Dean’s nasal breaths lengthening and pulling in oxygen so that he didn’t have to end this glorious bonding caress. Castiel tasted different to every person and other being Dean had kissed before. He tasted of night and day, of promise and past, of bird song and thunder, of every impossible thing. Dean wanted to drown in it. He wanted to pull the essence of Castiel into his own core and keep it there. The passion of the moment had not left Castiel unaffected. Low breathy moans came from deep in Cas’s throat. Dean gasped into the kiss. He wanted to stay in hold, in the embrace, remain in this moment, frozen in time, solidified and bonded. 

 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I used ‘profound bond’ but it just had to go in there. I swear the keyboard wrote the letters itself into the Enochian translator.
> 
> The Enochian translates as – Our spirits have an eternal union of love  
> Thanks to http://tikaboo.com/enochian.jsp


	10. You Filled With Fireworks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING - This short chapter is rated Mature. I have not changed the rating of the whole story, but I am serious guys. It describes fully consensual frottage. If you would be offended or don’t want the smutty goodness then skip it, skim it or cast your eyes over only the final dialogue.
> 
> ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“God,” Dean moaned breaking apart their lips. The pulse was jumping in Castiel’s temple in rhythmic unison with Dean. Castiel breathed a garbled version of Dean’s name. 

Castiel’s leg pushed between Dean’s, making him adjust his stance and allowing him to rut against the angel’s thigh. All the while their desire expressed by grinding together. His blood was liquid fire. Dean strained inside his denims, hitching the more supple material of the dress pants. Cas’s hips rolled in circles, matching Dean’s motion. 

Layers of complexity blossomed with the rising heat of Dean’s blood. He recognised pure lust and possessive desire. Along with the passions of the moment came a want... a reaching out to connect more deeply and intimately. The need Dean had for Castiel was aflame, coaxed brighter and higher with every jerk of Cas’s hips, every slide of their tongues together. There was a give in Dean’s knees. Gravity was telling him that this shouldn’t be happening in a standing position.

The hunter’s fingers circled Cas’s wrist pulling him towards the bed. The angel was willing. The few steps were like a vivid dream where the sleeper floats six inches off the ground. Dean would have done a reality check pinch, but he knew he was alive and awake, hard and needing. Castiel undid their flies while Dean leaned in for another taste of his mouth. It was Dean who guided Castiel to wrap their cocks together. A little voice in the back of his head said this was meant to be only a kiss. Dean told the little voice to shut up and instead muttered an apology about the lack of lube. He didn’t know if Castiel had been beating off in Idaho, but the angel raised Dean’s palm to his mouth and planted hot breathy licking kisses to his hand. Dean joined his rigid cock against the velvet skin of Cas’s again and began to pull and stroke at the pace he favoured. Cas placed one hand on Dean’s arm and the other formed a tunnel for their heads. He flicked Dean’s slit with his thumb. It was too much and pre-come beaded from the top. He dropped his forehead until it met Castiel’s shoulder.

“Cas,” He panted, “Please.”

He didn’t know what he was pleading for but when Castiel moved to lift and pull at his balls, Dean moaned again. Dean sped up his long squeezing motions. Castiel quivered under his ministrations and with a yell of “Dean” came, painting both of their ridden up shirts. His fingers tightened around Dean’s sack as he rode through his climax and that pressure tipped Dean over. The world lit up in a blaze of white. 

It was sweaty, messy and urgent. When Dean had permitted imaginings of having Castiel, it had always been late at night, both naked, and spread on crisp fresh linens. Yet this had been clothed (mostly), panting and moving on the edge of a tossed motel bed with the winter sun lighting up dust motes in the re-circulated air. And it had been awesome.

Dean reflexively closed his eyes. White floating stars did a dance of joy on the inside of his eyelids. He whispered “Goddammit Cas, fucking ace.”

The back of Castiel’s fingers stroked from his cheekbone until they halted under his chin and pushed his face up from Castiel’s shoulder.

“I want to see you”

Dean opened his eyes meeting Castiel’s. A litany was written in those deep blue pools which were filled with care. Perhaps that was a look of more than caring affection.

“I guess we moved out of buddy territory.” Dean jested to avoid an outbreak of mutual emoting.

Castiel’s lashes dropped in a measured fall. “I believe we crossed a line.”

“Broke for the border,” Dean chuckled, “Geez, I think you broke me good.”

“I hope you are ‘razzing’ me.”

“No finger quotes,” Dean teased. Quick as a flash he grabbed one of the offending digits and tugged it into his mouth. It was salty and sticky but Dean rolled his tongue and sucked it in. He wondered if he could get Castiel into the shower with him.

“I thought you didn’t bite,” Castiel grinned.

Dean pulled his head back with a soft pop, “Oh I can bite, but you’ll have to ask me nicely.”

“I wish...” Castiel’s head tilted and his eyes focused on the middle distance.

Dean let out a worried “Cas?”

“I wish it had been you. That you had been my first...”

“Dawh, Cas,” Dean sighed, “I kinda do too. If it’s any consolation I’ve only had one sexy lady since I was re-virginated in the name of Vesta.”

“I know that’s not a word or a real process, but you are my first and only guy,” Castiel beamed.

“Me too,” Dean eased back but trailed his fingers down Castiel’s sleeve, “My first guy since Vesta.”


	11. There's Nothing You Can Throw At Me That I haven't Already Heard

About twenty minutes from Lebanon, Dean began to get riled up, Bruce Banner style angered. It wasn’t because of anything that Castiel had said or done. Neither had any new pile of steaming bullshit had landed on their shoes. He really wanted to push this away. Castiel did not deserve to have all Dean’s crap vented onto him. There’d been times when Dean had acted like a shit and Castiel had been an easy target. Sam had even called him out on it before the final trial. Dean bit down on his lip and gripped the wheel as if it was the bar of a rollercoaster cart heading for the big loop. He wasn’t planning on cussing Cas out of it. If anything he’d like to pull over and fuck into Cas, a frenzied pounding into the dirt, with Dean shouting and Castiel moaning underneath him, until he’d wrecked them both, and the rage had been transmuted into something rough and harsh but possessive and better.

As the Impala ate the miles bringing them closer to the bunker, Dean seethed against the devious traitorous untrustworthy dick who had robbed the Men of Letters’ HQ of all the security and solace it had imparted to him. Along with a rising temper came that type of wrathful self-loathing that curled inwards, waving a race-starting-sized flag of his own stupidity, rash decisions, and deceptions in his face. He was angry at life and the world and the shit hand that Winchesters always got dealt. If wishing wells didn’t kill you, Djinns didn’t suck the life out of you, and jumping to alternative realities didn’t result in mass casualties, then Dean might have asked Castiel if a world existed where they could... 

The lyrics of that old Cat Stevens song rattled through his brain.... settling down despite everything, getting to be old and happy... But Dean knew he didn’t get to have that life. Even more he knew he didn’t deserve it after everything he had done, including his latest layer of crap and its consequences... all the BS and downright lies he had spouted. 

Castiel reached over and placed a hand on Dean’s jumping knee. 

Dean tried a deep inhalation and an attempt to narrow his world down to the road in front of him and the pressure from Castiel’s hold. 

“It is not your fault.” 

Dean refused to take any comfort from the welcome sound of Castiel’s gravelled voice, when he was not entitled to receive it..

“It kinda is, Cas.” Dean didn’t look to the side.

“Did you tell the angel posing as Ezekiel to smite Kevin, to renege on his promise to help Sam?” 

“You know I didn’t,” Dean spat, “but that doesn’t mean jack.”

“You are not responsible for this angel’s actions.” Castiel insisted.

“You’re not freaking listening to me Cas.” Dean’s volume increased. His chest thrummed with boiling acid, “You know the dude doing the aiding and abetting gets jail time too.”

“Stop Dean.” Castiel’s voice held such command that Dean almost slammed on Baby’s brakes. He held back further comment and listened to the angel. Castiel huffed and removed his hand from Dean’s leg, “I refuse to allow you to do this to yourself. By all means, take responsibility for your own mistakes but you will not shoulder the blame and penance for the actions of a renegade angel.”

“I fucking did this. I called out. I opened the door. I would have done anything. You hear me, anything to get Sam back. And I did it. Me. It’s on me.” Dean choked out the last words, “You should freaking hate me, man. I turned my back on you when you needed me the most...”

“Dean, please, stop.” Castiel’s plea was soft with the words drawn long enough for the hunter to turn his head. “I have never hated you. I’ve hurt for you, but never ever hated.”

“Geez,” Dean hissed. What was he meant to say to that?

“I have existed for eons.” Castiel continued.

Dean winced and remembered to watch the road again. The only benefit to the awkwardness of pointing out their galactic sized age difference was that the anger was fading with the distraction.

“Millennia of guarding heaven, who knows how many visits to Naomi, watching this planet, until finally my garrison led an assault into hell and I tucked the most exquisite human soul under my wing,” Castiel raised his palm to halt anticipated words of self-depreciation from the stunned hunter. “But it was not until I grew to know you, admire you, and cherish you that I understood what love is.”

Dean managed a broken vocalised “Cas.” 

Years of being at the wheel in times of crisis helped him to make the turn to the bunker. At the narrowed end of the track, the Impala’s engine idled. Dean’s fingers could not find the ignition key, because they had more urgently popped his seat belt, sought Castiel’s shoulder, yanked the angel towards him, wrapped into that dark mussed hair and cradled his skull as Dean spoke his reply through action. He needed this. Needed Castiel. Needed. Loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Dean thinks of is Yusuf Islam/Cat Stevens – Father and Son  
> “settle down, if you want you can marry  
> Look at me, I am old, but I'm happy  
> All the times that I cried, keeping all the things I knew inside  
> It's hard, but it's harder to ignore it” = The lyrics Dean is thinking of
> 
> “From the moment I could talk I was ordered to listen” - Makes me think of John and Dean, and of Castiel as a garrison angel.


	12. I'm Not Afraid Of Anything In This World

Wind blew loose leaves in swirling devils around Dean’s boots. The steps down to the bunker door were littered with leafy detritus and blackened damp twigs, ice clung to the corners. He could sense Castiel at his back. Dean hefted the demon knife in his hand. It wasn’t that he was expecting an attack, perhaps it was to do with the delinking of ‘sanctuary’ and the bunker in the hunter’s mind. Going in armed and ready bolstered Dean’s resolve. He pulled the key from his pocket. Castiel shuffled closer. Their jacket sleeves rustled together, joining their personal space into one unit. 

“We will find answers here.” Castiel reiterated. Dean knew the statement was unnecessary and given to offer him something to grab onto as he turned the key.

“Damnright,” Dean muttered without much heat. He edged in sideways, walking crablike with his back to the door. He extended his arm, palm meeting Castiel’s tie, urging caution.

The lights were on.

Dean was almost certain he had flipped the power off. He stilled, hearing only the blood coursing through his ears and Castiel low breathing. Dean took each step of the metal stairway like he was picking his way through a landmine field. 

There was nothing, no disturbance of the air. Was he so out of it when he departed that he intended to but did not turn off the power?

At the long table Castiel’s fingers found Dean’s trailing hand and squeezed. Dean let out a long exhale and released the tension in his shoulders. He turned to peck the corner of Cas’s lips in gratitude, but he kept hold of the dagger. He remained uneasy. There was no feeling of homecoming and that was just freaking miserable. Dean wasn’t used to returning to places where his friends had fallen. He was more a move on and leave it behind kinda guy, not one for pilgrimage to grave markers or creating memorials outside of the ones carved in his soul. He tried to keep his eyes from drifting towards where he wrapped Kevin’s body for the pyre.

“You wanna coffee?” Dean asked. “Might as well fuel up if we are hitting the library.”

“Thank you.” Castiel said simply. “I will retrieve the bags from the car.”

Dean nodded. “I’ll bring her round to the garage later.”

He needed to duck down the corridors and do some damage repair. It was embarrassing to think of Cas seeing the storm he had inflicted on his bedroom. As he descended the labyrinth to get to the living quarters Dean felt as if eyes were watching him. It was creeping under his skin and he didn’t like it. As soon as Cas followed him the better. 

Dean had righted his mattress and was replacing his weapons on the undamaged racks when he heard a throat being cleared.

“I did not think you would return.” Not Zeke said from the doorway.

Dean grabbed the closest thing, his Purgatory machete. Not Zeke’s face formed into exaggerated sympathy and he huffed in a way that was too like Sammy.

“Ditto,” Dean snarled.

“It is unfortunate.” The angel smiled inappropriately, turned on his heel and walked away.

Dean scrabbled on the floor for his angel blade. It was under the bed. He reached for it and headed after the dick. His heart accelerated and tried to take up residence in his throat. He wasn’t going to skewer Not Zeke. The assbutt knew Dean wouldn’t risk losing Sam. But Cas was somewhere in the bunker. Dean guessed the library for Dick of the Century’s destination. His feet skidded on the tiles as he rounded the entry.

“Cas!” 

The room vibrated and crackled with lightning. Huge tattered wings lit in flame extended behind Sam’s body. They dwarfed everything in the vast space. The lightning struck shadow of Castiel’s wings seemed insubstantial in comparison.

“This,” Not Zeke curled his lip in disgust and waved his hand, “Is not your Grace. Thief, I name thee.”

Dean bit down on his lip. The pure power on display was terrifying. He considered if he could edge along the bookshelves to take a more tactical position to aid Castiel.

Castiel’s blade slid down out of his sleeve and into his hand. “Anathema, I name you. One who smote a prophet of the Lord. Possessor of a vessel without consent.”

The angel tilted his head and blinked slowly, “Thief, I have heard of your offences against heaven, your name is written on the scroll of the condemned, Castiel.”

Dean snorted, deliberately drawing the sonavbitch’s attention, “Y'mean the post-it notes of the angel squabble?”

“Silence.”

A pressure squeezed around Dean’s neck as if a noose was tightening. The blade fell from his grasp. He fumbled with his hands and fingers but there was nothing there. Gasping for air. Goddammit Dean hated choking. Blue spots swam in his vision. He slid down the shelves, the edges scrapping his back. 

“Stop.” Castiel demanded.

“Why is this human so important?” Not Zeke asked. The vice slackened as the angel’s voice rose in hysteria. “Do you also wish an archangel grade vessel for your use Castiel? It is abominable that we must take their forms on this world. Insignificant disobedient ants who ruin everything they touch.”

“We do not Take, Gadreel. We ask and we gratefully receive the gift of the devout.” Castiel took a step closer, the image of his wings quivered. “I doubt you had been gone so long that you forgot such a basic tenet of our existence.”

“All is done for the greater good.” Gadreel focused in on Castiel.

“There is no such thing as the Greater Good, my brother. Only Good.” Castiel tried.

Gadreel laughed. It was an unpleasant mournful sound that stabbed into Dean, reminding him that there was no trace of his brother present.

Using Sam’s height as a weapon Gadreel loomed over Castiel, “You tell me this. You think you can tell me that there is only Good. I have seen Evil. I have witnessed temptation and the falling of man. The serpent resides in all of these humans and in my penance I have chosen the one who bore him. I have taken his true vessel as he took everything from me. You will never persuade me to relinquish my hold.”

Dean’s brain was trying to catch up. Not Zeke was really named Gadreel and he had some beef with Lucifer. “Well whoop-di-do. Welcome to the We Hate Lucy Club, you dickass. Did you listen in on Sam’s grapefruit at all? Sam is the one who locked Satan back in the hole. You should be frigging throwing floral garlands over him and fulfilling your promise to heal him. We freaking would have helped you. Me, Kevin... there was no need...”

“I was following my orders. There is a bigger picture.” Gadreel’s DEFCON three readiness eased down. 

In the instant of Dean’s eyelids blinking, manifested wings vanished.

Castiel pursed his lips. He hid his blade and narrowed his eyes, “There are no orders. You must decide what is right. This is your opportunity, Gadreel. It’s a do-over. Choose.”

“I will not listen to your silver tongue. Choose? Choose what?” Gadreel sneered.

“Let Sam Winchester decide if he wishes to say yes.” Castiel suggested, calm and low with palms spread.

“Sam is gone.” Gadreel insisted. “You try and reel in me in. Ask me the impossible, seraph. You have no authority.”

Dean shouted “No!” 

He reached forward trying to touch, sense, connect with his brother, as the sound of wings signalled Gadreel’s sudden departure.


	13. To Worry Like You Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, this one was written on wordpad on my Dad's old computer. No spell checker, no formatting.... apologies if there are any glaring errors... and Happy Christmas.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++SPNSPNSPNSPNSPN+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Where did he go?" 

Dean didn't expect an answer. He began to haul his body upright. He tried to ease out the muscle ache in his back from where he had hit the shelves.

"Not far," Castiel remained battle ready, urgency vibrated from him. "Gadreel is still in the bunker. We have to move."

Suddenly Cas was at Dean's side assisting him with a strong pull under his armpit. 

"Whoa!" Dean used Castiel's shoulder to steady his balance, "Take a second, soldier."

"We must leave here," Castiel finished.

Planting his boots firmly into the floor, Dean exclaimed, "Leave? Excuse me? We, as in us, must leave here? We just got here. Why can't Galadriel, or whatever his elf-name is, take a hike?"

"Be quiet Dean," Castiel hissed tugging the reluctant hunter's arm to get him moving.

Dean opened his mouth to protest but he caught a glimpse of Castiel's grim countenance. He permitted the angel to pull him down the hallways until they reached his bedroom. A tiny voice whispered wishes that they were entering together under different circumstances. Another beat of relief told him he was glad he had tidied up. It didn't seem that Castiel noticed that much, as he slit his arm open with the point of his angel blade and decorated the back of Dean's door with an interesting selection of Enochian sigils.

"He cannot enter or overhear us now." Castiel slumped onto the end of Dean's bed as if the air had been let out of his tires.

"He could be outside the door," Dean's eyes widened, torn between checking and seeing Sam's form, and the urge of self preservation. His adrenaline level kicked up a notch. "He could lay siege. We don't have food or beer in here."

Castiel slid two arms back on the comforter and let them take his weight. As he leaned back he gave a genuine chuckle of amusement. The sound assuaged Dean's temporary freak moment. Smiling in response he realised a siege was unlikely. Maybe he'd overdosed on Game of Thrones. Castiel patted the bed next to him. Dean huffed and took up the invitation to sit.

"So, Galahadriel?" Dean prompted knocking their shoulders together.

"Gadreel," Castiel corrected, "He bears no resemblance to Sir Galahad."

Dean filed away a question about the veracity of the King Arthur stories and listened.

"He is one of The First," Castiel inclined his head to Dean's raised brow, "The First Angels our Father created. Michael, Raphael, Lucifer and Gabriel, then the highest Seraphim and Dominions, those who would be entrusted as Grigori. They became known as Watchers, given Divine Charge to cherish humankind."

"And Gadfly was one of these watcher-dudes?" Dean asked.

"Yes, the Watcher, one of the First 'Generation', with their infinite reserves of Grace."

Dean carefully lowered Castiel's curled air quote fingers. 

"Right, no 'air quotes'" Castiel half smiled doing another set of quotes.

"Cliff notes... we are dealing with a Mount Kennedy sized Douchenozzle, not a weiner proportioned dick." Dean clicked his tongue, "with the nuke capacity of an Archangel. Sonvabitch Cas, freaking Winchester Luck."

"That is precisely the nub. Gadreel will not give up virtually the only Archangel vessel on the planet without a fight. Most standard vessels would not contain him for long without..."

"Exploding," Dean finished in a huff.

"However it is possible he is not at his full powers." Castiel's lips narrowed, "Gadreel had been detained in Heaven's most secure prison for millenia. Imagine Dean, thousands of years under the torture of Heaven's most righteous enforcers."

Dean shuddered. A flashback of being stretched beyond possibility on Alastair's rack seized him. He realised Cas was ramrod with tension beside him and figured the angel's memory was throwing up similar images, perhaps of Naomi's brand of inflictions. Dean sneaked a hand over to press support into Castiel's thigh.

"When Zeke, Not Zeke, said he was weakened, it wasn't from the fall was it?" Dean refused to allow a crumb of sympathy for the devious dickass, "He was already scheming to use Sam for his own recovery. What did he do to piss off the God Squad so momumentally?"

"Why was Gadreel condemned? It was he who allowed Lucifer access to Eve, let Lilith fall into the serpent's clutches, brought evil to the Garden." Castiel met Dean's eye.

"Wait, so all that Genesis stuff is real?" Dean blinked.

"It did not 'go down' exactly as recorded but Gadreel's punishment was absolute and righteous. The wrath of God was evident." 

"Basically we are dealing with a nuclear powered, possibly insane from thousands of years in a cage, fresh prison break dick with wings, who is carrying out his revenge against Lucifer by possessing my brother?" Dean gulped back suffocating guilt that he was the one who let Gadreel in. "And he says Sam is gone."

Castiel tilted his head, almost bird-like, "I believe Gadreel is healing Sam's body of its trial damage."

"Only cos it's his meatsuit." Dean spat.

Castiel shuffled a little closer to Dean, "and he is using Sam's soul to energise his own recovery."

"Motherfucker." Dean imagined Sam's soul shrinking to the size of a snitch.

"No Dean," Castiel laid his warm hand over Dean's one, "Do you comprehend? If Gadreel needs Sam's soul as his powerhouse, and the condition of his wings alone tells me he is still does, then Sam is not gone."

Dean's chest constricted as his heart expanded in hope, "Sam is still there. Geez Cas, is he scratching away in there, trying to figure out what has happened to him?"

"We can hope that Sam is shoved down into unconsciousness. Although it would be better if he was aware of his predictament. Sam is a clever tenacious man, who overcame Lucifer's hold. All he needs is..."

"I know. When he was fake-Zeke, he told me Sam could eject him with a click of his fingers." Dean stood and scrubbed a hand over his face, "but the next humongous sized problem is we don't know whether Sam is healed enough to survive without his parasitic angel."

"No we don't," Castiel admitted, "but it has been months. Gadreel obviously found the time right to make his move."

"I forced his hand," Dean winced, "with the sigil Kevin came up with."

"There are some Enochian vessel related spells, but I am not well versed in them. Dean we need to find the Men of Letters' book or document that Kevin used, and his notes. With those I believe I could re-construct, perhaps adjust, the sigil you used. Gadreel is possibly also searching for this knowledge." Castiel paused, "Before we go, I believe we should release Crowley."

"What now? Have you lost your marbles?" Dean's mouth dropped. Maybe he needed to get his ears cleaned out, because he did not hear that looney suggestion.

"By leaving Crowley here, he is at Gadreel's disposal. We could release him with the undertaking that he will not act against us." Castiel added, "We not be able to return here."

"Crowley can do a lot less harm locked in our dungeon." Dean puffed a long breath and shook his head, "But I get it. If Gadreel makes an alliance to release him.... damn it... It is true that if released Crowley would have his own scrabble for power with Abaddon to distract him. I still don't love the idea of freeing the King of Hell."

"Nor do I, Dean, but we take the initiative now. I will remove the sigils from your door, we find the spell to access Sam, remove Crowley from the equation, regroup and have faith."

"Faith?" Dean blew a raspberry of derision.

"In us." Castiel moved to hold Dean's shoulders, "I have faith in you Dean."

They leaned forward meeting foreheads, "I know, Cas, but I'm not so sure you should."

"I do."

Dean grabbed his angel in a body tightening hug. "Fuck it, man. Together, right? Let's do this."


	14. I Will Not Forsake

"Ready?" Castiel made to wipe the symbols from the door.

"Hold up," Dean caught a spare duffel and rapidly packed some essentials, his machete and a couple of other weapons. He carefully placed the photograph of his mother in his billfold. There would be no mourning for his room, but he did regret leaving his vinyl collection behind. He swore that if it was possible he would return for them and other precious items that had migrated from various storage units since they set up a home base.

Castiel watched seemingly impassive but Dean saw his fingers twitch as if he wished to aid his companion but did not know how. When he had the bag over his shoulder Dean clapped Castiel on the back, "Thanks man."

"For what?"

"Y'know," Dean explained.

Castiel hummed and jerked his head towards the door.

"Is he out there?" Dean whispered.

"I do not believe so." 

"What is Plan B?" Dean chewed his lip, "What do we do if we encounter the mofo suped-up and ready to smite?"

"Have your knife ready," Castiel suggested, "and banish us."

"Shit Cas, that idea has more holes in it than Swiss cheese." The afterglow of the angel banishing flash was conjured by Dean's mind along with a peak of anxiety about what it might do to Castiel with his purloined grace.

"I will distract him," Castiel insisted in a brooking no nonsense voice, "allow you time to draw the sigil."

"And then you end up in a greyhound track in Melbourne with no flight pass." Dean's voice rose, "No freaking way."

"I will be perfectly fine." Castiel's face softened. He raised his hand to cup Dean's cheek, "Do not worry about me."

Leaning into the touch as if he had been starved of gentle affection, Dean sighed, "We are going to Kevin's room and the library, yeah? There is an old Moroccan type box on a shelf. Sam and I put our emergency cash there. Got at least 3 Gees. You stuff that in your pocket and you use that to get back to me ASAP."

"Yes sir," Castiel grinned.

"Are you mocking me?" Dean huffed a laugh.

Castiel shook his head still smiling, "We need a rendezvous point."

"Forget about a rendezvous point, you just call me and tell me where you are. If you beam down onto American soil I'll get to you, or give me your arrival airport if you are coming in from Abu Dhabi or Chang Mai." Dean tried to communicate with his eyes all his commitment to reuniting with Cas in their Plan B scenario. "I'm deadly here Cas, you capiche?"

"I capiche." The corners of Cas's lips remained upturned as he scrubbed off the sigils and they took point positions in the hallway.

They didn't encounter Gadreel over the short distance to Kevin's room. It was a disaster zone. Even the mattress had been shredded. Dean could only shrug. It was pointless hanging around where Gadreel had obviously blown apart everything in his search.

Dean kept Castiel behind him as they headed for the library. The corner where Kevin preferred to work had also been turned over. Dean hadn't noticed the damage during the early angelic peacock display. Gadreel had stood with wings extended in front of that area, perhaps deliberately Dean thought now. He quirked a grin and nodded to Cas. Under the reading table, unconsidered by Gadreel, was Kevin's Path of The Plainswalker graphic novel. 

"Yahtzee" Dean sidestepped Castiel to duck under and retrieve it. 

Poking out were two leaves of paper. One was yellowed and had an old style paperclip attaching a Men of Letters' library catalog marker. It looked like hieroglyphs. The second sheet was in Kevin's hand and a mix of tablet symbols, cuneiform, Enochian and almost illegible notes. Gadreel might have the tablets and whatever else he had gleaned from Kevin's work, but he hadn't found this. Dean triumphantly handed the sheets to Cas, who wordlessly put them inside his jacket.

Dean made quick work raiding the cash store. He thought briefly of all the pool hustles it had taken to build up the stash. It was for a rainy day and Goddamn if it wasn't pouring now. He fisted the money and stuffed it into Castiel's pockets with a vehemence communicating his seriousness about how much he hated the idea of Castiel blasted to China or Outer Mongolia.

On the way to Crowley, Dean thought he saw movement around the corner of the hallway ahead of them. He flung his arm out halting Cas. Silently he pointed. Castiel nodded. Dean jerked his head back the way they had come. With his heart beat twerking in his chest, Dean let his hand find a reassuring grip on his knife. They were not in retreat. During Sam and Dean's downtime when the older Winchester could not stomach filling another salt round and it was vital to his mental health that he avoid being lured into mind-numbing research of the MOL back catalog, Dean amused himself by exploring the maze of their lair. Some days he ended up in the garage or the kitchen, but other times he built up his mental map of back passageways, hidden stairways and doors with concerning noises behind them. All this served them well, as Dean led Castiel up four stories, down an elevator which inexplicably only took in two levels, along a diagonal corridor and back down a spiral staircase until they ended up approaching the dungeon from the opposite side, and more importantly without a whiff of Gadreel.

The outer door was open. The secret opening thrown wide. The devil's trap burned through and the demon collar open on the table.

There was no trace of Crowley.


	15. You Gotta Stand Up Straight

“Too damn fucking late,” Dean kicked the wall so hard the reverberation travelled up his leg. 

“It was always a possibility,” Castiel sighed.

“That is no fricking comfort, Cas.” Dean snapped. “Crowley’s had months to brew up a Stewie Griffin grade, Pinkie and The Brain level, diabolical scheme of freaking Dr Evil proportions.”

“Dean, stop. I have no idea what you are saying.” Castiel glared.

Dean panted between gritted teeth, “Crowley, he’s got the heads up on us.”

Castiel kept an even tone in the face of Dean’s visceral reaction. “Everyone has a heads up on us. Malachai, Bartholomew, Abaddon, Crowley, the demons, the angels... when did any of that stop you before?”

The eyes meeting his, sincere and grave, stirred the unpalatable mix in Dean’s gut until some sort of antacid balm settled each droplet of ire into smoothened ice sculpted in determination to do something about it. Dean licked his lips and gave a barely perceptible nod to Castiel’s spoken truth. 

“I’m good.” Dean muttered. He turned round to shake his head ruefully at the open demon collar, “Another fine mess.”

Castiel ran a hand over his hair then dropped his arms awkwardly by his side, “Do you need to eat?”

“Huh?” Dean was jerked out of his funk.

“You have had no sustenance or liquid intake since our rest stop.” Castiel pulled out Kevin’s notes and gave them a once over while he spoke, “Do you wish to visit the kitchen briefly before we depart?”

“Yeah, yeah, OK,” Dean took the couple of steps to join Castiel. He linked his arm into the crook of Cas’s elbow. Teasing he leaned in, “Shucks look at you, taking care of me.”

“It is my pleasure,” Castiel replied and flipped over the yellowed sheet of paper as they walked.

Dean eye rolled but he didn’t let Cas’s arm go.

“The basis of Kevin’s spell was sound. How did you say Gadreel countered it?” 

Swallowing unwelcome bile Dean answered, “He got there before me and adjusted the sigil.”

Castiel hummed. “If we could immobilize him... although we would first have to overpower him or lure him into a circle of holy oil.”

“Hey Cas, you’re looking at the mofo sonavbitch duo who holy oiled Raphael back in the day, way before the apocalyptic showdown.” Dean smirked and gave Castiel a wink.

“Yes we did. Didn’t we?” Castiel remembered.

“Good times.” Dean nodded sagely.

“I wouldn’t exactly say that. If I remember we thought it was our last night on earth, and you insisted on dragging me to a den of inequity.” 

“Just what I said, Cas. Good times.” Dean stopped and his hold on Cas’s arm dragged the angel to a halt too, “Although if it was now, we wouldn’t need no den of inequity.”

“Are you propositioning me Dean Winchester?” Castiel raised a hand and pressed it against Dean’s plaid.

“Might be.” Dean pushed against Castiel’s hand. He caught the angel’s wrist to make way for an embrace. For a moment it was like he was yanking on iron. The question about what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object popped into Dean’s head. Turned out the immovable object gave way and met the irresistible force, which in turn became inert to join the moving angel in fusion. The kiss was brief and urgent, burning with promise. 

“If Sam could see you now what would he say?” Gadreel asked from the kitchen entry.

“Why don’t you call him up and we can ask him?” Dean seethed, breaking apart from Castiel and dropping the duffel off his shoulder. 

Gadreel dry clicked his tongue at Dean and walked ahead into the kitchen. “I would prefer if you would leave here.”

“You’re shitting me?” Dean laughed raucously, “What is it with you and making people leave the bunker?”

“It is a safe haven. I have claimed it, and I will not give it up,” Gadreel stood to Sam’s full height.

“Geez, is there an echo in here Cas? He is like a freaking broken record.” Dean put on a mocking high pitch, “This is mine. I claim it. Go away. I’m not playing with the other babies.”

“I am an angel and you will respect me or feel my wrath,” Gadreel’s nostrils flared.

“Blah blah blah-di-fucking blah,” Dean huffed back. Castiel put a hand on his arm in an attempt to get the hunter at the end of his tether to calm down. 

“What did you say?” Gadreel took a step towards them.

“Angel, respect, wrath, What-Ever.” Dean rolled his eyes, “I’m getting potato chips and a beer. You want some Cas?”

Castiel nodded as Dean sidestepped the tall form of his brother and pulled two bottles out from the pack that had most likely rested in the fridge for the last few days. Gadreel watched every move.

“So,” Dean began moving around to the cupboard where the chips where, “You kicked Crowley out with the trash cans?”

“Being in proximity to the abomination made my grace crawl,” Gadreel wrinkled his nose, “I thought to smite him, but he was persuasive in his arguments for his continued existence.”

“This is unfathomable, brother. You smote the divine prophet but spared a demon.” Castiel’s narrowed eyes showed an effort to parse Gadreel’s intentions and a certain concern for the older angel.

Dean dropped his bottle cap on the floor. He crouched down to search for and pick it up. A quick nick to his wrist and a one fingered scaled down angel banishing sigil on the lower cupboard door made him feel better prepared as he stood.

“The perversion knew I had taken this vessel.” Gadreel was saying, “He sat there looking down at me, calling me a moose poacher. In my efforts to control my environment I had not reaped the earlier clue of his refusal to use my blood when he called Abaddon. I had underestimated him as an adversary.”

“So you let him go? Freed him to wreak havoc on humankind?” Castiel accused.

“No seraph. I sent him back to Hell.” Gadreel barked. “Now you will leave.”

The angel blade dropped from Gadreel’s sleeve and his eyes glowed blue with grace. 

Castiel strained to move forward.

“No Castiel. I am prepared for you this time.” Gadreel reached forward with a smite-ready open palm of death.

Castiel let out a feral noise and broke whatever hold Gadreel had tried to place on him. He swung round to Dean’s side of the room and dropped down his own blade.

“Look Gad, before we have another wing contest,” Dean spread his palms. “Live and let live and all that.”

Gadreel blinked and head tilted at Dean, who was winging it and they both knew it.

“I know sometimes You got to give the other fella hell, and I get it, I do. This is an ever changing world in which we live in.” 

Castiel met Dean’s eye. Dean blinked slowly once, telling Castiel to brace himself, while the hunter continued to contort the words of Paul McCartney and Axl Rose, “I can see you aren’t gonna give in and cry, so it’s time for a little, live and...”

Dean did a sudden squat, rolled to the side and slammed his hand onto the sigil, “Let Fucking Die, Assbutt.”

The light blinded him. He let off a fervent prayer to the ether for Castiel’s safety and sagged against the kitchen units.


	16. I'm Just Trying To Find A Song That I Can Sing

The image of Castiel’s and Sammy’s bodies being thrown through space burned the back of Dean’s eyelids. He squeezed them tight in an attempt to dismiss the banishing afterglow. With a nasal huff that turned into a aching groan, Dean wrestled his body up from the kitchen floor. His back protested. His knee clicked back into place after the impact from his drop down at speed. His hand ached from where he had hit the sigil so hard that he had left a dent in the door. As he shook out his hand, he wondered if he had dislocated one of those tiny wrist bones that Sam knew the name of. 

Draining his beer and slamming the bottle onto the work surface, Dean knew he had to get moving. The closest first aid kit had a cling bandage strap. He took a minute to wind it around his wrist, ripping the end into a V and biting on one frayed end to hold it while he knotted it tight. 

This was not the occasion to test how long it took a supped-up pissed dickwad to boomerang back to base. Gadreel obviously had stopped eating when he no longer had to pretend to be a fully functioning human Winchester. Dean gagged but prevented a spewing incident when he opened the fridge full of going off food. The sour smell of blackened wet lettuce and globular milk made him blink and hold his breath. He couldn’t stop his automatic pouring of the lumpy milk down the drain from pure housekeeping standards. Instead of anything resembling fresh foods, Dean grabbed another bag of paprika potato chips and a couple of granola bars. There was an unopened carton of long life frou frou juice, some organic mix of guava, mangos, lychees and pomegranate crap that Sam had picked up. Dean caught the carton, his supplies, duffel, and extra cell phones and raced to the Impala.

Behind Baby’s wheel, hands caressing the leather, Dean checked the time. He couldn’t be sure of the precise moment he had sent Cas to Narnia but it must have been in the previous hour. He tapped his foot between the pedals, wondering how long was reasonable for Cas to touchdown. He knew Castiel was not receiving clear reception on his battered tin can version of prayer FM radio but it was true that Cas had known Dean was beseeching him in the aftermath of Kevin’s death. 

Dean closed his eyes. He flicked them back open for an instant, never liking to close off his senses. It combated with his hunter’s instinct. Trying again Dean sought a strand of the intangible. Huffing in wry amusement he wondered if he had a yogic centre or a tag on his soul that read “Castiel woz ‘ere” in Enochian. If he had, then he wrinkled his nose and put effort into seeking it. He felt dumb, as if it was all hippy dippy douche twaddle, but he kept going filling his mind with Cas, deep voiced, strong handed, kiss tasted, with eyes, lips, and wings in Technicolor. 

“In the name of love and us...  
Sleight of hand and twist of fate  
On a bed of nails you make me wait,  
Like a star exploding in the night  
Falling to some city in broad daylight  
Where the frick are you, Cas?  
I can’t bastardise anymore Bono lyrics,  
Come back... please... you gotta call me, Cas?”

Dean opened one eye, but there was no sign. He waited.

Every second of nothing was like an hour.

He began to get antsy.

The compulsion to move away from the bunker grew. Traitorous thoughts coiled sinuously into Dean’s consciousness. What if the blast was too much for Castiel’s ill-fitting grace? Was there anyone who would resurrect the deceased seraph again? Well, it was nearly fucking 2014, Sam had a dickass wearing him to the prom, Angels were using the Earth for their personal title fight arena, so Dean sending a willing Castiel to his death as part of a crap plan would fit right into the nightmare puzzle. He glanced out the windshield expecting zombified Croats to amble up the lane at any moment.

Dean shook his head violently to clear it. He got his ass and the Impala into gear.

He made it as far as Lebanon Grocery Store. Dean didn’t know if he was heading north, south, east or west. He had a three in four chance of moving further away from Cas.

Ramble On emanating from his cell jerked Dean up in his seat. He moved as fast as his fingers could.

“Cas Babe?”

“Hello Dean, I sensed you seeking me.” 

Castiel sounded OK, whispering but good. Dean sighed in relief. “Are you OK, man? Gadreeka didn’t beam down to the same co-ordinates, did he?”

“No, Dean.” 

The hunter conjured those small parallel lines between Cas’s brows at the Trekkie terminology.

“I am at 34 degrees 51 South and 56 degrees 11 West.”

“Where exactly?” It was Dean’s turn for a brow furrow. That sounded suspiciously outside the confines of the continental United States.

“In a church.” Castiel added in a hushed voice.

“Not that exactly,” Dean rolled his eyes. There was some sort of spectral hummingbird fluttering away in Dean’s chest, using voodoo hummingbird powers to raise Dean’s mood, hopes, affections, and spirits. Or maybe he was going all shiny happy in response to hearing Castiel’s voice.

“I ‘touched down’ on the golf course during competition. The golfers were not pleased with my apparition. They were quite vociferous in their objection to my presence on their green.”

Dean was unsuccessful in his attempt to bite back a chuckle.

“It is not amusing. They brandished golf clubs at me.”

Dean outright guffawed, “I’m sorry Cas. But you are an angel of the freaking Lord and they had nine irons and sand wedges.”

“No sandwiches. Were you listening? I retreated to this House of The Lord, the Sagrado Corazón.”

“Where the hell is that?”

“Montevideo,” Castiel answered tersely, “In Uruguay.”

“I know where Montevideo is.” Dean expelled a long breath, then joked “I suppose I could drive.”

“I presume that suggestion was made in jest.”

“Yeah, Cas. It would take a while.” Dean grinned, “You gotta get on a metal bird of death.”

“Airplanes are statistically a safer way to travel.”

“Talk to the hand Cas.” Dean quipped back, “Look, just book the next flight back to American soil.”

“I am on American soil. South American.”

“Don’t be Picky McPickerson.” Dean gave an affectionate smile, “Just get your feathery butt back to me.”

“Yes Dean,” Castiel promised. “I will call you presently with details.”

A weight had been elevated. Dean ducked into Lebanon’s only burger joint and inhaled a double bacon with fries and a long coke. He was wiping his lips with a napkin when his cell started up again.

“Yo Cas.” Dean braced his muscles like Usain Bolt on the starting line, ready to head in whichever direction necessary.

“Apologies. I had to find a money exchange and travel agency. The kind employee assisted my online purchase of additional cell phone credit. The cost of international connection is quite astonishing.”

Dean had a moment of looking at his life from the outside. His partner, who was an angel by the way, landed in Uruguay, was chased by rabid golfers, and he finds cell charges astonishing? 

“Hit me.”

“I am on the next fight to Miami International.”

“Great, what is your ETA?” Dean tucked the phone between his shoulder and ear as he moved.

“The next departure is tomorrow night at 2300 hours, and I am sorry Dean, but it does not arrive until the following morning.” Castiel added in a regretful tone, “I did hope to be reunited more expediently.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it OK?” Dean tried to console Cas. He felt a niggle of disappointment that Cas would not get back any quicker. “Listen. It’s gonna take me a couple of days to drive to the Sunshine State. You’ll be there before me.”

“Oh,” Castiel expressed.

The breathy sound made Dean’s lips quirk.

“Dean?”

“Yes Cas?”

“I will wait for you.”

“Good,” Dean choked a little on the layers of meaning and times that people had not done that for him, “What you going to do until tomorrow?”

“Raul recommended a cheap clean motel, but I will be fine.”

“I know you will.”

“But I will miss you.”

“Yeah, me too, Cas.”

“I will send you a text message later.”

“Sext you back, partner.” Dean promised with his best shit-faced grin, although Cas couldn’t see it, he hoped the angel could hear it.

“I think the word is Text, Dean.”

“Yeah, right, you are right,” Dean laughed, “Later?”

“Later. Drive safely.”

Dean turned the Impala for Kansas City. He slipped in AC/DC, put the pedal to the metal, and started his long ride to Miami.

Sometime well after dark, somewhere south of Springfield, Missouri, Dean’s eyes dropped and the white lines of the highway doubled up like ribbons. Not wanting to waste time with a motel, Dean pulled off I-95, covered his body with an army blanket and got his four hours of shut eye.


	17. It's Just A Moment This Time Will Pass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gently warning for an intimate smutty moment.

It was late afternoon when the Impala cleared Fort Lauderdale and approached Miami. Dean had driven like his life depended on it, from dawn to dusk the previous day, only allowing the possibility of slumber when he had crossed the state line into Florida and the Impala seemed to turn her own wheel into the Eazzzzee Sleep family run motel in Marianna. He was in heavy traffic. The sort that made him grind his teeth and wish he had a batmobile with extendable wheels so he could zoom over the roofs of all before him. He set his elbow on the frame of his open window and sighed. Praying (to nobody) for patience and fortitude he plucked out his cell. The gridlock snake gained a few hundred yards until he had to apply the brakes again. Castiel’s flight had experienced a short delay but he had arrived in Miami before noon. He had to use his limited grace to teleport around immigration and security on both sides of the flight. International journeys without a passport were not recommended. Originally Cas was meant to wait in the airport but he’d texted Dean to say he needed fresh air and time to rejuvenate and had headed to a café near the water. Dean checked if he was still there.

_I am in the Bayfront Park. Do you think I should wear skates?_

Dean wanted to text back an ‘excuse me’, but he contented himself with an affectionate eye roll.

_No Cas. I’ll find U without us having 2 resort 2 wheels on feet._

_There are many runners and bikers here. I am on a bench by the water. What is your ETA?_

_coming down NW 7th Ave. Soon._

Dean’s text was made true by an increase in motion. He flipped on the radio and discovered that an earlier accident at an intersection had been cleared. The weather was a high of 75 with a prediction of overcast skies, but Dean could only see blue between the buildings. He figured Castiel had gotten a peach of a day to spend in a park. He wondered if the angel would tan and if he should stop at a pharmacy for sun block to prevent the dreaded Dean-Peel and shocking freckle deepening.

He checked his street signs and his Google maps ap. There was parking across the street from Bayfront Marketplace. Dean fed the meter and walked briskly into the park. He breathed deep, taking in the saline scented air. In his rolled up shirt sleeves, hunched over with his hands loosely clasped on his lap, Castiel gazed at the palm trees and water beyond. Dean’s heart clenched. His mouth dried and lips turned upwards. He’d felt this before when reunited with Cas, especially beside another body of water in Purgatory. He wanted to hold the angel in his arms and never let him go. If the self-sacrificing loyal fool came up with another escape plan that included banishing then Dean was putting his foot firmly down in refusal. 

Dean considered surprising Cas with a sudden hug from behind but the angel’s head rose and with unerring accuracy picked out Dean’s approach. Castiel stood up and pushed his shoulders back. Another few paces and Dean eyes found Castiel’s and the same shared smile broke across their faces.

Castiel’s “Hello Dean” was muffled by being grabbed for a body clenching hug. Castiel tittered a light laugh and said “I missed you too.”

“Fuck man, don’t you do that to me again,” Dean ordered as his pulled apart only far enough to rub Castiel’s day old stubble with the back of his fingers, “And don’t tell me that technically I did it to you. You have no idea how freaked I was.”

“I’m sorry my love.” Castiel leaned his face into Dean’s touch.

The term of endearment should have felt chick-flicky but Dean’s heart did a mini-tumble, his inner Roy Orbison bubbled up his voice box and he went with it, “I literally drove all night to get to you.”

“Literally?” Castiel squinted at him, “Have you slept? Eaten?”

“I’ve said it before Cas but don’t ever change.” Dean chuckled, “It’s a song. Y’know… No one can move me the way that you do,” He grabbed Castiel around the waist, humming the tune and guiding their hips to move in slow dance mode, “Nothing erases this feeling between me and you, I drove all night to get to you,” Castiel’s eyes were like saucers, his full lips parted and his arms rose to rest on Dean’s shoulders as the hunter leaped forward a few verses, “Could taste your sweet kisses, your arms open wide, this fever for you was just burning me up inside Cas.”

Dean leaned in and tasted the sweet lips. Castiel’s soft tender response was a slow exploration of their mouths with a little moan at the back of the angel’s throat that did terrible feverish things to Dean’s libido.

“I think we should get a motel before we get heckles of ‘get a room’,” Dean grinned as the kiss ended. He didn’t let Castiel out of his arms but leaned forward so their foreheads touched.

“I agree,” Castiel breathed. “You need to rest.”

“Humph, wasn’t thinking of rest,” Dean quipped, “but a bed does complement the activity I have in mind.”

“I believe we may be on the same page,” Castiel teased.

Dean intertwined their fingers as Castiel retrieved his jacket and a leather man-bag with a patch that had blue and white stripes and a sun with a face on it. 

“Collecting souvenirs?” 

“It was my carry on,” Castiel informed him, “I have my notes and those we took from the bunker. After I slept to replenish my grace level, I worked on them during the long flight.”

“And?” Dean asked anxiously with the Impala in sight. She gleamed in the sun. Dean made a mental promise to give her a quality wax when he could.

“Kevin’s notes were difficult to decipher and I failed to completely make sense of them,” Castiel admitted, “but they relate to the sigil that would allow an angelic host to gain control of a vessel’s mental processes.”

“Yeah, that’s what I wanted and Kevin stepped up to the plate and hit a home run. The clusterfuck that followed wasn’t Kevin’s fault.” Dean tightened his grip on Cas’s fingers.

“He based his design on the Men of Letters’ document and his learnings from the tablet.” 

Dean nodded.

“Have you read the document?” Castiel asked as they reluctantly parted hands to enter the Impala.

Dean made a negative grunt, “Research, dude, and it’s in Latin or some crap.”

“Yes it is Latin.” Castiel confirmed. “It is a paper tangent to the main focus of the Men of Letters’ research in the final days of the order.”

“You mean trying to cure demons. We watched the director’s cut.”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel clipped his seatbelt and pulled the yellowed paper from his bag, “This contains the incantation for an angel ‘exorcism’. Unfortunately the only time the order put this into practice the vessel died.”

“Not going there then.” Dean huffed. “Wonder why Kev didn’t tell me about that?”

“Did you ask him for such a spell?”

“What? No,” Dean shook his head before turned onto the boulevard. “I don’t think I did.”

“There is a Latin chant that a demon can use to send an angel back to heaven.” Castiel’s mouth thinned to a grim line, “If the vessel has not been destroyed by the demon, the host spirit regains their body. However, heaven is closed and it is a demonic contrivance.”

“And we no longer have a demon on a leash,” Dean pointed out with a wry snort.

“I removed the invocation of demonic powers, combined the essence of that chant with the Men of Letters’ incantation, and added the phraseology from the standard demonic exorcism from which an uninjured vessel will survive unharmed.” Castiel paused with a Dean-grade smug grin.

“And?”

“I believe it will work.”

“You believe?”

“I am confident it will work.” Castiel added. “If you wish I can try to find a willing test subject before we head back to Kansas. In this instance it is unfortunate that my body is my own, as I am sure Jimmy would have assisted.”

“Back to Kansas?”

“Gadreel is taking possession of bunker, so” Castiel began. Dean finished the conclusion with him, voices in tandem, “We know where to find him.”

Dean banged the wheel. “Shit, Cas. I can’t believe it. That dickwad stealing our home turns out to be a good thing.”

Castiel nodded, “I believe if we could use the original sigil with a small alteration it would render Gadreel immobile. We may need a holy oil circle as another layer of insurance, but if we can do that much, then this Latin incantation will work.”

“Cas, man. You don’t know what that means to me. It’s a freaking light at the end of a pitch black tunnel.” Dean wished he wasn’t behind the wheel so he could envelop his partner in the deepest most heartfelt embrace of gratitude and devotion. Castiel just inclined his head. 

There was a vacancy sign over an ice-cream pink and baby blue hotel. It had Honest-to-God balconies and sat nicely in the top end of the Winchester Motel Budget. Dean left Castiel to babysit the Impala with its idling engine while he snagged them a sea view king. His key card raised the barrier for the underground parking. The room wasn’t luxurious or large but the bed was. Dean smoothed down the sheets while Cas stood leaning over the balcony railing.

“Would you like to take a walk before the sun goes down? Maybe find a good burger place?” Castiel suggested.

Dean had other plans in mind but they would be sweeter after a tantalizing delay, and he hadn’t eaten more than Doritos since morning. He shed his layers, finding a short sleeved light plaid shirt in his duffel. He offered Cas a tee but was refused in favor of the angel rolling up his sleeves and undoing the top buttons of the poplin.

They didn’t talk much as they strolled with arms linked along the white sands. Cas pointed out the spiny case of a sea urchin. Dean guided Cas’s eyes skyward to a cloud that reminded him of a dragon. The temperature cooled and the sea slipped from aquamarine to a deeper turquoise. They turned round to amble back noticing the beach had emptied somewhat. Dean pulled Cas playfully to the side of a lone palm tree. He reached up and tussled his hair until the angel went from confused to amorous. When they had tangled in kisses and Dean had sucked a blossoming mark on Castiel’s neck, Dean popped the remaining buttons on the white shirt. He scented and flicked licking moves across Cas’s nipples until the buds peaked and the angel’s breathing hitched. Dean was aching in his denims and he could see Castiel was tenting his dress trousers in a way that made him salivate with need. Caught unawares Dean startled when Castiel’s long fingers found the buttons of his plaid. Then there was glorious suction as Castiel covered the star of his tattoo with a vacuum creating kiss. He was going to have the mother of all hickeys. But Dean wasn’t letting Cas get away with that. He raised the angel’s chin with his fingers pressing a quick corner of the mouth peck. He crouched down and bobbed his head swirling his tongue in and around the cavity of Cas’s belly button.

“Don’t please,” Castiel gasped and giggled.

“Ticklish are we?” Dean smirked. “I’ll remember that.”

He moved to find the Enochian text of Castiel’s protection tattoo. There was a hand in his hair massaging in rhythm to Dean’s sucking marking caress.

“Dean,” Castiel panted, “I can’t.”

“Let it out babe,” Dean dropped to his knees and licked his lips. He raised a hand to the zipper intending to release Castiel’s rock hard cock. As soon as he touched the cloth, Castiel quivered and came in his pants. Dean leaned back, bum to ankles, and guffawed in mirth, “Geez, Cas sweetheart, we’re going to have to work on your stamina.”

“Are you?” Cas asked.

“I’m good, and y’know we are in public’n’all, my spur of the moment blow job coulda got us an indecency charge.” Dean willed little-dean to be a patient boy, shrugged his shoulders and accepted Cas’s hand to rise to his feet.

Twilight had fallen while they were busy. The sky was a palate of pinks and purples. The strip was lighting up in a display of electric brilliance.

Castiel’s fingers tipped Dean’s and the hunter wrapped their hands together. They bumped shoulders and laughed at their unscripted passionate moment. Castiel guided them off the sands and they read menu boards outside various restaurants open for the evening trade. Dean had an unfamiliar cozy feeling. It was like floaty cotton wool, a warm glowing ember, and a magnetic pull towards Castiel. This, he pondered, was what love must feel like.

“Hey Cas?” 

Castiel looked up from the printed window menu he had been examining. “Yes Dean?”

“Y’know we are going to do this.”

Castiel knew he was talking about Gadreel, “We are and we will succeed.”

“Good,” Dean shuffled his feet, “And y’know I’ve got your back.”

“And I yours.”

“Good, because I love you and all.” Dean ran the words together and ended them with a gentle grin.

Castiel was rendered speechless.

“Good, glad that’s sorted,” Dean said firmly and tugged a blinking Castiel by the hand, “Cause I’m fricking starving. I need pie. There must be somewhere in this sea of eating joints where they’ll give us two spoons to share a whole Key Lime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all your support and comments and kudos, and for reading.  
> Here's hoping for good things after the midseason hiatus.  
> Adieu to this Cas and Dean as they share their pie, their battles, their lives, and their love.


End file.
